


Without You

by sewerkingcharlie



Category: It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia
Genre: Alcoholism, BPD, CSA Processing, Denial, Drug Use, Hallucinations, Intense, Jesus Complex, Losing Touch, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Ms Klinsky, NSFW later chapters, Partly canon compliant, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychosis, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Repression, Self Harm, Suicide Attempt, Tension, Therapy, Water, biblical, bisexual Dee content, mental health, post suburbs, reality disturbance, s11
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerkingcharlie/pseuds/sewerkingcharlie
Summary: ON HOLD‘For some reason, perceiving Dennis in such a morbid light made Mac notice a somber feeling of ennui anchor him into a frozen position. He was paralysed with exhaustion, desperation, anguish and as he looked upon the carcass of Dennis Reynolds, he felt deeply, deeply disappointed’•Dennis fell, and he fell fast. Dramatically, drastically, dreadfully - it took less than two months for him to lose himself completely. Dennis didn’t perceive much that was going on around him.Maybe he could perceive the taste of Mac’s lips or the sound of his shouting or the coarse texture of his stubble, but he couldn’t perceive much else. How he was affecting the man, for example, and how Mac was susceptible to falling as well.
Relationships: Artemis Dubois/Dee Reynolds, Charlie Kelly & Dennis Reynolds, Charlie Kelly & Mac McDonald, Charlie Kelly & Mac McDonald & Dennis Reynolds, Dee Reynolds & Dennis Reynolds, Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 24
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

Frank looked up as a knock came to his and Charlie’s flat door. It was a tentative knock, which made Frank frown - the only people who ever knocked on their door knocked with confidence, or anger. It was either the gang, impatiently trying to get his or Charlie’s attention, or it was an angry neighbour, or Hwang demanding the rent. Not only was it a tentative knock, but it was 2:00am. Charlie was asleep and the knock hadn’t woken him up, although he was knocked out after nine bottles of beer, two tins of cat food and a little too much glue.

Frank stood up from the bed he shared with Charlie, where he’d been sitting, scrolling aimlessly through some anonymous MILF website. Mindfully, he locked his phone and put it down on the pillow, and with an ugly grunt, made his way towards the door, opening it swiftly, a little angrily to have been disturbed this late at night.

It was Mac. 

Great, the weird one. Just what Frank fucking needed.

“Whaddya want?” Frank grumbled a little incoherently, rubbing his eyes as the light of the corridor poured into the room. It was as his eyes refocused, he saw that Mac was crying. Mac? Crying? It was weird, mainly because Mac had such a warped view of his own masculinity, he simply didn’t allow himself to cry. In fact, Frank had seen Mac cry less than Dennis as an adult. Seeing Mac with tear-stained cheeks and a wobbly bottom lip startled Frank into silence.

“Hi Frank,” Mac said quietly, defiantly wiping the back of his eyes, obviously embarrassed. He’d obviously been expecting Charlie to open the door, so when Frank, the one in the gang who understood Mac the least, opened the door, Mac’s heart had sunk. He didn’t want Frank to see him cry - that was plain mortifying. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Uh...” Mac looked steadily at the doorframe, not particularly wanting to look at Frank with tears in his eyes. “Nothing, nothing. This was a bad idea, I’ll go...” He hesitantly turned away, biting his lip, before taking a couple of steps away from the door. Barely moments passed before he felt two hands reach and grab his shoulders, steering him rather unceremoniously into the flat. Mac frowned, confused. Frank had never cared up until this point, normally he’d slam the door in Mac’s face. Maybe the time of night and the state Mac was in humbled the old grouch slightly. Whatever it was, Mac didn’t fight it. He didn’t want to be on his own that night, and if he were to go back to Dee’s flat, where him and Dennis were staying, that’s what he’d be. Alone.

Frank, still steering Mac by the shoulders, pushed him down to sit on the bed. Charlie grunted as the weight of the futon shifted - this made Mac a little hopeful. He hadn’t come round here with the intention of seeing Frank, he’d come round here with the intention of seeing a man who he’d, without hesitation, consider his brother.

Frank stood back, and put his hands on his hips, looking at Mac who was staring into his lap, trying so, so desperately to stop the pathetic tears from escaping his eyes.

“Well spit it out,” Frank pushed, his voice a little harsh, although Mac didn’t know if Frank was capable of speaking softly at all. Charlie turned over from one side to the other, obviously beginning to stir.

“Do you...” Mac started, and as the rest of the sentence ran through his brain, he could feel a sob begin to rise in his chest. His teeth chattered, and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head and taking the deepest breath he possibly could. God. He needed to pull himself together. So, a little calmer now, he spoke without sobbing, just a little wobble to his voice. “Do you think Dennis hates me?”

Frank blinked, and frowned in sheer confusion. Had Mac really come all the way over here at 2am to talk about his feelings about Dennis? That pissed Frank off a bit. Seeing Mac in that state, Frank had assumed something awful had happened.

“How the hell would I know?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Mac snapped, staring into his lap as his nostrils flared at Frank’s insensitivity. “You raised him, dude. I wasn’t expecting you to know, anyway. I came over here to see Charlie.”

“Tough shit, you’re stuck with me,” Frank shot back, his voice harsh, even harsher than usual. “Charlie wouldn’t know shit, anyway. He doesn’t care enough about yours and Dennis’ crap to notice.”

“Have you noticed?”

“Christ Mac, listen to yourself!” Frank exclaimed. Charlie kicked his leg as if in protest to the disturbance of Frank's grating voice, but didn’t wake up. Mac furrowed his brow, looking up at Frank through the fringe that wasn’t slicked back that night. “Why does it matter if Dennis hates you or not?”

“B-because!” Mac exclaimed, looking up incredulously now, challenging Frank with a hurt look in his eye. “He’s my roommate, dude! How would you like it if Charlie told you he hated you?”

“Oh, Dennis told you?”

“Yeah,” Mac sighed, defeated, but a little more comfortable - you see, Frank’s tone had dropped a little with that sentence, and the fact that Mac was no longer being yelled at made him feel a tiny bit better. “Yeah you know, when we were in the suburbs. He freaked out, like... he seriously freaked out, it was kinda creepy. And you know, I’m used to Dennis going nuts on me, but he actually screamed like ‘I hate you’ and...”

“Oh,” Frank chewed his lip rather obviously, not bothering to hide his confusion. “Look, Mac, everyone in the gang says they hate you.” 

Mac raised an incredulous eyebrow and slapped his hand on his knee, lip trembling in either sadness or anger; he couldn’t quite decipher what it was that was making him react that way.

“Great, thanks Frank. That makes me feel so much better,” he snapped sarcastically, almost laughing coldly.

“Let me finish,” Frank glared, shuttling Mac up instantly. Frank sighed, and sat down on the bed besides Mac. “I was going to say that even though everyone in the gang says they hate you... everyone in the gang says that about everyone. Each other, you, me, random strangers coming into our bar, women in power, loud-mouthed fairies-“

“Where are you going with this, Frank? Because it seems like every point you ever make, ever, is riddled with some sort of prejudice.”

“It’s just, nobody ACTUALLY hates you. Nobody ACTUALLY hates Dee, even though she’s the fucking worst,” Frank explained as gently as he could, but his tone of voice was aggravatingly obvious and almost patronising. It didn’t comfort Mac at all. “All’s I’m saying is, you probably don’t have to worry. It’s all contextual, you see?”

“Oh, it’s context you want?” Mac said, irritated. “Here’s your context, Frank. Dennis, whilst brandishing a metal rod, literally screamed that he hated me with the most deranged, furious look I’ve ever God damn seen in another mans eyes. He screamed it so loud and meant it so much that fucking veins were bursting out of his forehead, Frank. How’s that for context? Jesus.”

Frank didn’t really know what to say. Dennis was mad, yeah. Big fucking serial killer vibes, Frank could admit that. And as his father figure growing up, Frank had seen some of the worst of Dennis’ petty rages. But from what Frank had witnessed, Dennis had built up a level of trust with Mac, whether the man would ever admit it or not. Sure, he still hid all his emotions. Sure, he still snapped and sassed and shouted. But he’d moved in with Mac - Dennis had been willing to allow Mac to see him at his worst. When he’d woken up in the morning and hadn’t got his makeup on? Mac saw that. When he was throwing up at 3am after drinking straight whiskey all evening? Mac saw that. Frank simply couldn’t grasp the concept of Dennis hating Mac, because simply? He didn’t. That much was obvious to Frank.

But that’s what made this situation all the more confusing.

“I don’t think you should take it to heart-“

“God damnit Frank,” Mac snapped, standing up suddenly. “You don’t get it. You’ll never fucking get it.”

“No, Mac, I don’t get it!” Frank gestured wildly. Mac looked to Charlie, who’s hand was covering his eyes, breathing starting to elevate out of deep sleep. “And I don’t get you! I don’t get why it matters so much!”

“Because- because Dennis is-!” Mac felt his lip start to wobble again, and he didn’t pay it much heed - it was probably just anger again. Mac, however had obviously misjudged his emotions completely. Only moments later, the lip wobble turned into eye watering, and in the space of about ten seconds, one of his hands was covering his eyes in defiance as tears began to fall. This was totally, totally fucking pathetic. At least it wasn’t in front of Dennis, at least he’d got out of the house and to Charlie and Frank’s flat before he’d got like this. “Fuck I don’t know!” He yelled, frustrated at himself more than Frank. Mac’s chest was beginning to rise and fall at a more rapid rate, uneven, shuddering breaths shaking his frame. “He’s one of my closest friends, dude. A-and- and, I... he’s always put up with my shit, you know? Like Charlie, but we live together. He’s...” Mac tried to take a deep breath to steady his sobs but it ended up turning into a wheeze, eyes squeezing shut, hand still covering his eyes. His body curled a little bit, and as he thought about what he was going to say, the words that Dennis had yelled echoed in his head. ‘I hate you’. “He’s seen my ugly and nobody else has, and- fuck! Fuck sake!”

Mac felt a hand on his shoulder. Without looking, he pulled away, assuming it was Frank being a patronising little bastard. He bit down on his lip, his breathing broken and jagged as tears streamed down his downturned face.

“Bro.” Mac stopped - that was Charlie’s voice. It was tired, thick with sleep, but unmistakably Charlie’s irritatingly grating, rough voice. “Mac, dude. Calm down.”

Mac could feel himself crumble. Not physically, exactly, but his mind was totally closing down. After Frank’s attitude, Mac had given up on expecting even a glimmer of empathy - yet here Charlie was. He’d put his hand on Mac’s shoulder again, but this time, Mac didn’t shrug it off. The warmth of knowing that his best friend, his brother, was finally there to comfort him, let Mac feel totally comfortable. What had been strangled sobs that he’d been trying to repress, to push deep, deep down, had become gentle but incessant crying. He removed his hand from his eyes but didn’t look at Charlie, nor Frank. 

“Dennis hates me, Charlie-“

“No, dude,” Charlie reassured, a little awkwardly but lovingly, nonetheless. “Dennis is just fucked. He’s totally fucked, dude, he’s like... the most fucked dude I know. I bet he was just getting angry at you because, you know, you were there and he was totally irritated at the situation.”

Mac wished he could say that Charlie had a way with words - he didn’t. But the ramblings of his tired, illiterate friend seemed to make sense in Mac’s head, and as Charlie stood there, patiently, Mac started to consider rationalising the situation. That didn’t make it hurt any less - the tears didn’t cease, but they slowed at least. After a minute, maybe two, Mac looked up to see Charlie, looking at him cluelessly but with obvious, tremendous concern. Mac’s vision was blurred by his tears, and his jaw was trembling, but seeing a foreign amount of patience on Charlie’s face comforted Mac a wholesome amount. 

“Do you want a hug, bro?” Charlie asked, face confused. He had no idea what to do, what to suggest, and Mac could tell from the look on his face that he thought that suggestion would fall on dead air. But Mac wanted a hug, and he wanted one bad. So he shrugged, looking down.

“I guess, bro,” he sniffed, wiping his face aggressively with the back of his hand. The force of his hands made his eyes sting, which only made them water more, but at least the actual crying was coming to a close.

Charlie sighed and pulled Mac in for one of their manly hugs. Charlie and Mac had never been that tender with their affection, so Mac was expecting Charlie to pull away almost immediately. But as Charlie patted Mac’s back firmly, and Mac took a shaky breath in, Mac realised that Charlie wasn’t going anywhere.

Hey, Mac thought to himself. At least Charlie isn’t going anywhere.

All he had to worry about now was Dennis. A man, who at this point, seemed to precede the term ‘best friend’. It had always been different with Dennis, and now the man had told Mac he’d hated him, Mac was starting to understand why, exactly, it was different with Dennis.

That was something he’d never wanted to admit to himself. And as the thought crossed his mind, he felt himself start to cry again. But Charlie held onto him. And it was okay.


	2. Chapter 2

Dennis was laying in bed with Dee, chewing his nails. He’d not fallen asleep that night, although he was laying on his side, feigning sleep, eyes squeezed tightly closed. At one point, when Dennis had assumed that everyone else was asleep, he heard stirring, and a couple of sharp intakes of breath. It was unmistakably Mac - but Dennis didn’t move a muscle. He listened to Mac leave Dee’s room, closing the door as gently as he could, although the rickety door handles rattled in what sounded to be Mac’s shaking hands. Dennis waited a few moments, before slipping out of bed, checking his phone that was charging on the floor. 1am. He walked softly over to the door, lingering near the crack in the door but not so close that Mac could see him. After a short moment, it dawned on Dennis - Mac was crying, and he was crying hard. He could hear Mac pacing around the flat, jagged breaths and strangulated sobs, obviously trying desperately to not be heard.

Part of Dennis was angry at Mac. Crying was pathetic, and at this hour? Surely he’d have known it could’ve woken Dennis. How selfish. What a selfish, idiotic man. The other part of Dennis ached. He knew, when he really stopped and thought about it, that Dennis was the reason Mac was crying. They’d just moved back to Dee’s from the suburbs that week, and Mac had been excruciatingly distant, visibly upset. He hadn’t cried as of yet though, so this happening made Dennis’ brain hurt. Was it because Dennis had told Mac he’d hated him? Surely not, Dennis threw quips at Mac all the time. But Dennis really had lost it that day - perhaps there was a possibility that it got to Mac. Had Dennis broken down his walls?

Finally, he thought, before shaking his head. Finally? What sort of monster was he? 

Dennis had a complicated relationship with Mac. It’d always been that way, but after the month he’d just been through with the man, Dennis was tearing himself apart inside, trying to figure out Mac’s actions but moreover, trying to figure out himself. Dennis had never faced his issues head on before, but at that moment, the issues were looming over his with such intimidation, they were impossible to ignore.

He turned his concentration back to listening to Mac, but just as his ear was tuned in again, he heard the front door of the flat close, with defiance. 

“Fuckin’ dick,” Dennis mumbled to himself, mostly because that’s how he would be expected to react, even though at that moment in time, nobody was even listening. Dennis’ very cleverly constructed persona was becoming a performative identity, and his cruelty was starting to root itself into his very core.

He felt bad. Not guilty, as such, but viscerally uncomfortable. It was a state of mind he was used to, although he’d repressed it for many years. That night, it was like an open wound, and it made his jaw clench. His limbs felt heavy, and although his mind was racing, he felt painstakingly empty. It was almost debilitating, and it made Dennis want to do something drastic. Bang a hooker, smoke some crack, punch a homeless guy, cut his wrists. Not that he’d ever done the latter before, it was something that always played on his mind. A little niggling at the back of his head, a little ‘what if?’. It was appealing, simply because Dennis had done all those other drastic things. And sure, to begin with, they all helped. But at this point, he’d just feel worse after. Self-destruction seemed like his last option, if nothing else but to feel something.

The most courage Dennis had ever had in regards to self-destruction was his eating habits. And those eating habits fluctuated - when he was doing okay, it wouldn’t even cross his mind. But at times like this, when these feelings would last for days, weeks, Hell, even months on end, not eating and feeling himself grow weaker and hungrier seemed fulfilling to him. It didn’t make him feel emotions, really, but it certainly made him feel physically, more than he usually would. And at this point, any feeling at all was better than nothing.

“Christ,” Dennis muttered as he became a little more conscious of his thought process. It was then, as he tried to blink these thoughts into submission, did he realise - he needed somebody to talk to about this. But who? Who in the fuck would put up with this from Dennis, the assumed emotionless robot?

Not Frank. Need he even clarify why - Frank was a heartless bastard who’d ruined Dennis’ childhood. He wouldn’t understand even if he wanted to. No, that was no good.

Not Charlie. Charlie was probably the most understanding out of the whole gang, but he was so infuriatingly stupid, he wouldn’t know where to begin in understanding the complexities of Dennis’ brain. Charlie struggled with empathy, unless it was for animals or the Waitress - no. Charlie wasn’t the person to go to. 

Not Dee. She would laugh and taunt, and almost certainly use the information against him at some point. Plus, that stupid bitch ran her mouth like nobody else. One minute, he’s telling Dee something in confidence, the next minute, the whole of Philadelphia knows about Dennis’ issues.

Not Mac. Dennis didn’t know why, though. Maybe because he’d shown Mac enough of his personal life. He’d entrusted Mac with plenty enough, there was no need to add to the burden. Plus, Dennis needed to maintain the illusion of stability with Mac. As soon as Dennis were to inform Mac that he was actually quite fragile, Dennis would immediately lose a level of power he had over Mac.

He licked his lips and stroked his chin, closing his eyes with a frown. 

He had an idea.

He turned around from the door and walked over to the bed, nudging Dee’s shoulder harshly. 

“Dee,” he snapped, not bothering to keep his voice down. Dee grunted, shoving his hand off of her shoulder. “Dee God damnit, wake up.”

Dee’s eyes snapped open, and she scowled, rubbing her eyes.

“What? What is it?” She retorted angrily, a hiss to her voice. 

“Is your therapist independent or does she like work for like... I don’t know, a company? I don’t know therapy terms,” he asked impatiently. Dee’s expression softened, but contorted into confusion at the same time. “Don’t look at me like that, just tell me!”

“The fuck’s so wrong you need to go to a therapist?”

“Don’t ask questions, you bitch!” He raised his voice, glaring at her. “Any more questions? Or do you want me to put black hair dye in your shampoo?”

“You wouldn’t dare-“

“Answer the question!”

“Christ, okay!” Dee raised her eyebrows. “She’s part of an organisation, she’s not independent.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much do they cost? Jesus Christ, you’re fucking thick,” Dennis cursed, pinching his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.

“About $70 a session,” Dee was obviously trying to figure out what was going on from the utterly perplexed look on her face. It was almost comical to Dennis, that he’d kept up this facade for so long, not even his twin sister could figure out why he needed a therapist. “You’ve always hated therapists. Why are you going to one now?”

“No more questions,” Dennis finished the conversation, standing up straight and exiting the bedroom. Dee spluttered something incomprehensible, but Dennis had closed her bedroom doors behind him before he gave her any heed. He paused, sighing frustratedly to himself, before opening the door again. “What’s their office number?”

“Jesus- it’s in my phone contacts.”

“Can I have it?”

“Yes! Christ, I’ll text it to you now if you’d just give me a fucking minute,” she flared, reaching for her phone.

“No need to get emotional,” Dennis remarked, to which Dee’s jaw dropped. 

“You’re asking me for a therapist’s number at one in the morning, and I’m the emotional one?!” She shook her head, furious, but too tired still to fight back any more. After a moment of her scrolling through her phone, Dennis heard his phone vibrate, on the floor besides the bed. He stepped over and picked it up, unplugging it, and pocketing it. Without another word, he left the room once again, ignoring the confused and irritated “Dennis!” as she called after him. 

The door closed, and his face fell from confidence to something else, something he could never quite place. Immediately he looked up the organisation on Google - Dee was right. $70 a session. It was risky waking Frank up at this time, as Frank was a lot more grouchy and generally abusive than Dee. He’d phone him and somehow convince him to give Dennis the money in the morning. In the meantime? He needed a drink. He grabbed his keys from the side of the kitchen, double checking that he had the keys to Paddy’s that day. He did, so he slipped some shoes on and a light jacket; although it was the height of summer, it was still the dead of night and was probably going to be a little cold. 

And so, without any further hesitation, he got in the elevator down to the ground floor of the apartment complex, and climbed into his car. Paddy’s bound.

He couldn’t help thinking, though. Where had Mac gone? Not that he cared. He was just worried. That made sense, right? 

He shook it off and started the engine, and drove to Paddy’s without another thought.

The roads were pretty much clear, as it was so late at night, so the journey was short. Dennis couldn’t bare to put on Bryan Adams or Steve Winwood. The silence, besides the engine of his car and the occasional police siren, was numbing, and he needed that emotional void to be able to cope with whatever the fuck was going on with his brain that night.

He began to think again, and he realised that he’d been getting worse and worse recently. He’d always been this way, to an extent, but until the last few years, he’d just accepted it and pretended it wasn’t there. He’d created a complex personality from the ground up, a creation that he viewed as a work of art. His most immense achievement - creating a whole person. It’d taken years, and had started at the age of five, after Dee had found him after smacking his forehead for hours on end. She was concerned, and the feeling of having himself exposed like that at such a young age had a profound effect on Dennis. Concern, when worn on other people, made him uneasy. In fact, that’s most likely why he didn’t feel comfortable talking to any of his friends about his issues. It was painful enough asking Dee for the therapist’s number. Enclosing that much and seeing her reaction made him almost angry, but at what, he didn’t know. It was all confusing, and he was going to avoid indulging in discussing his ‘emotions’ with the gang in the future.

He arrived at the bar, and by this point, his fingers were twitching and his wrist was pulsating, as it often did. He parked, and made his way into Paddy’s, walking in and closing the door behind him. He switched the lights on, and sighed. It smelled like booze, cigarettes and piss, but after so many years of working there, he’d become immune to the smell. It was actually almost comforting - it smelt like home. Only two smells in the world comforted Dennis: Paddy’s Pub, and Drakkar Noir for some reason.

He threw his keys down on the bar and grabbed a bottle of tequila. He’d drunk too much whiskey that week, and was starting to get a bit sick of it. So, he lingered by the glasses after grabbing the bottle, hovering over the shot glasses, before the pint glasses, before just frowning with a sigh, shrugging, and opening the cap, taking a rather unceremonious swig directly from the bottle. He winced because, if he was honest, tequila was absolutely disgusting to Dennis, even if he was a functioning alcoholic.

And so, he went over to the jukebox, and pored over the music selection. What to choose today? He loved the classics, the 80s, but he wasn’t feeling that today. And actually, the gang weren’t there to mock his choices. He considered for a moment, before hesitantly putting on the album ‘Grace’ by Jeff Buckley. 

Frank hated Jeff Buckley, and had managed to convince the rest of the gang that it was music for pussies. Mac and Charlie had tagged along with that thought process, as did Dee to an extent. They all teased Dennis for listening to him, so he’d never spoken about his fondness for Jeff Buckley again. It was rare he got a moment to himself to listen to music like this, so he grabbed the opportunity with both hands.

‘Mojo Pin’ began to play, and Dennis took a few uninhibited gulps of the tequila, swaying to the music. He closed his eyes as the song progressed into the second verse, and as he let himself move, desperate to knock some emotion loose, he couldn’t help but sing along.

“If only you'd come back to me,” he sang softly, his brow creasing. “If you laid at my side... Wouldn't need no mojo pin to keep me satisfied.”

The song progressed, and Dennis lost himself, despondently emptying the tequila bottle down his throat. The song finished, and then the next song played, and then the next song and the next song and by the time he was half way through the album, he’d finished the bottle of tequila and was pouring some shots. He was still feeling hollow, totally hollow, although the music was relaxing. He just hoped that if he got wasted enough, maybe he’d force his concrete walls to crack slightly. 

Six shots later, Dennis was feeling seriously drunk, and he was bellowing the lyrics, as each word passed, the songs starting to hit him deeper and deeper.

By the time ‘Hallelujah’ came on, Dennis was sat at a booth, his fingers tapping disjointedly at the table. The first chords began to play, and Dennis felt stony. The tapping stopped, and he clenched his jaw so quickly, he bit his tongue. It hurt, but he let it bleed, the metallic liquid coating his tongue. His wrists pulsated again, and his fingers naturally went to grip them. This action surprised Dennis - he looked down, to see his knuckles white and trembling as he gripped his wrist. He took a shaky breath, blinking hard to refocus his vision, and pulled the cuff of his sleeve down maybe half an inch, revealing his wrist. The veins were a greeny-blue, and suddenly the taste of blood in his mouth was more intense than ever. He took his finger and touched his wrist, lightly. It tickled, uncomfortably. His wrists had always been sensitive. 

He was biting his lip at this point, and, nostrils flaring, he slowly drew his finger across his wrist, barely touching the skin. He closed his eyes. God, if only he had the fucking balls. His finger lingered against his wrist for a moment, when a droplet splashed against the exposed skin. Dennis flinched, freezing for a second, before bringing his hand up to his face. He was crying, that much was certain. 

The song was coming into its final verse. Dennis pursed his lips, looking at the tear drops on his fingers through blurred vision.

‘Maybe there's a God above  
But all I've ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya’

Dennis exhaled a shaky breath, trying to calm himself down, trying to empty his mind of thoughts. But as these lyrics came floating from the jukebox, Mac leapt into his head. The look on his face when Dennis had proclaimed to hate him, the sound of him sobbing earlier that night, the way he was hesitant to even approach Dennis anymore. Dennis threw his head back violently and whacked it against the wooden divider behind the booth, tears flooding his vision totally. He grit his teeth and tried his darnedest not to just fucking scream, his breath spasming as sobs began to arise.

‘And it's not a cry that you hear at night  
It's not somebody who's seen the light  
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah‘

“Fu- uck...!” Dennis yelled through the incessant, almost violent tears. He slammed his fists down onto the table, over and over again, with such force, he expected they’d be bruised the next day. His head throbbed, his hands ached - that’s the sort of physical pain he was after. Just to ease himself into it. But this? This was a tidal wave of emotional torment that no repression could stop from arising. He sobbed, and it was ugly, and it felt fucking terrible. God, it felt so terrible. Wasn’t this supposed to be an outlet, to help you feel better? 

As Dennis sat there, body shaking, chest aching from the amount of, Christ, heartbreak that he was feeling, he couldn’t help but hearing the door of Dee’s flat close. What if that door closed one day and never opened again? What if Mac decided one day that Dennis was too much, too awful, too insane, too cold? What if Mac actually hated Dennis back?

It was tearing him up inside. He cried til the end of the album, and for at least an hour after that. But by about 3am, Dennis had passed out, sleeping with his head resting against the booth table.

Fuck. That was not the evening he’d had planned.


	3. Chapter 3

Dennis jerked awake as he heard the door of the bar swing open, the unmistakable squawk of Dee’s voice muffled from outside, before being clear and grating and frankly, infuriating. It hurt Dennis’ head - as he came round, he realised his head was pounding, throbbing, either because he was hungover or from when he’d smacked his head last night. Whichever it was, it meant Dennis was in excruciating pain. He winced, pushing his head up from the table. The door of the bar closed behind Dee, and although it sounded as though she was alone, she continued to speak.

“... Whatever, theatre turkey,” she scoffed into the phone, walking over to the bar and placing her bag down on a stool, not noticing Dennis. “It was a one time thing, okay? Stop calling me.” She slammed the phone down on the bar, and sighed with irritation, before catching Dennis out of the corner of her eye. She glanced at him, uninterested, before doing a double take, looking immediately back at him with startled eyes. 

“Morning,” Dennis mumbled, blinking a few times slowly, trying to adjust himself to the world of the awake. 

“You came here last night then?” Dee raised an eyebrow, to which Dennis shrugged, raising his hand from the table to brush the bedraggled curls that were stuck rather unattractively to his forehead. Dee gasped and grimaced, wincing. 

“What?” Dennis asked suspiciously. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Dennis, your hands-“ she cut herself off with a pained expression as Dennis brought his hands before his face. The sides of his hands were blotchy and bruised, red with areas of blue and deep purple. He prodded one of the bruises with morbid curiosity, sucking his teeth as he did. It was painful, sure. “What on earth did you do?-“

The door of Paddy’s opened, and Mac, Charlie and Frank walked in, following each other, having a conversation about the benefits of eating alcohol soaked worms. Mac looked disgusted with the conversation, but he was totally immersed in it, not noticing Dennis and Dee immediately. 

Dennis noticed the state of Mac. He hadn’t done his hair, he was wearing some of Charlie’s clothes, and his eyes were puffy, red, swollen. Dennis raised an eyebrow - so Mac had spent the night with Charlie and Frank. Being a pussy, no doubt. Probably spent the night crying. 

As those thoughts crossed his mind, Dennis retracted immediately, shrinking into his frame. He realised that actually, he’d done the same as Mac - spent the night crying, and actually, as Dennis had drunk his body weight in alcohol last night, he probably looked a darn sight worse. He looked away from the gang, at the table, hoping to become invisible so Mac wouldn’t see him like this. This weak, this disheveled.

Barely half a second passed when all conversation stopped, and Mac spoke up. 

“Dennis?” He asked with a frightening amount of concern, almost enough to make his voice wobble. “Jesus Christ dude...” Dennis looked at the wall, facing away from Mac, resting his head on his hand. 

“Mac, probably don’t-“ Dee warned as Dennis heard Mac’s footsteps approach. He felt a tentative hand on his shoulder, which made Dennis flinch dramatically. 

“Den...”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Dennis said with a low voice, trying to sound threatening. It didn’t come out how he’d wanted it to - his voice sounded pathetic, as if he were on the verge of tears which actually? He wasn’t. 

Dennis heard Charlie mutter a quiet “Jesus Christ...” as Mac tried to rest his hand on Dennis’ shoulder again. This time, Dennis snapped round, looking at Mac with a dangerous glare. 

Mac’s face was a picture. He looked totally shocked, seeing Dennis’ face. Without Dennis needing to shake him off, Mac retracted his hand slowly, twiddling his hem as he grimaced. God, how bad did Dennis look?

Mac looked uncomfortable, but Dennis could still see the concern, the pity, the empathy etched on his face. It made Dennis bubble inside, fury brewing deep down in his stomach. His nostrils flared as Mac looked away, opening his mouth and closing it again, trying to find words but not able to spit anything out of his pathetic mouth. 

Dennis, without any words, stood up from the booth and shoved past Mac, making Mac stumble. He clenched his jaw, grabbing his keys from where he’d left them on the bar last night, and without making eye contact with anybody, made his way towards the door, where Frank stood, gormless. He towered over Frank, and looked steadily at the floor, pinching his forehead.

“Frank, I need $70.”

“What for-“

“For FUCKS sake,” he snapped, taking a deep breath. Frank frowned, watching Dennis’ transition from angry to, well, desperate. “Please, Frank.”

Frank grunted and reached into his pocket for his wallet, rifling through and handing Dennis $70 begrudgingly. Dennis snatched it out of his hands and walked swiftly out of the bar, desperate to be away from the gangs increasingly observant eyes.

The door closed, and Mac looked at Charlie, who looked back at him helplessly. Nobody said anything for a moment, not even Dee, who’d been reduced to silence.

“What a psycho,” Frank eventually got out, which earned a deathly glare from Mac. Charlie looked away, awkwardly, but although the two men were overwhelmingly uncomfortable with this description of Dennis, they didn’t say anything. Dee, however, spoke up, not even bothering to mask her discontent.

“You can’t call him that,” she said quietly, her voice low. Mac looked at Dee almost gratefully, but also with a level of confusion. She was never one to defend Dennis behind his back. 

“Why not?” Frank asked cluelessly.

“It’s antiquated,” Mac chipped in, almost silently.

“You just can’t use that word anymore, Frank,” Dee huffed a sigh. “It’s disrespectful to people with actual psychosis.”

“Don’t be so liberal,” Frank scoffed, to which Dee’s fists clenched. This was hitting closer to home than usual, maybe after last night. Whatever it was, it was driving her to stand by Dennis. “Besides, I am trying to disrespect him. Because he is a psychotic person,” he clarified slowly, as if the rest of the group were dumb.

“No he's not!” Mac snapped, at which point Charlie looked up, brow furrowed. “I mean he’s something. That’s obvious at this point, and God knows what it is. But he’s not psychotic.”

“What do you mean, ‘God knows what it is’?” Dee asked incredulously. “We know what it is. Do you not remember?”

Mac looked at Charlie, Charlie looked at Frank. They were all blank, clueless.

“When Psycho Pete was at the bar? Me and Dennis went to get him medication?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Charlie asked with a quizzical frown.

“He got diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, assholes!” She shouted, to which Mac opened and closed his mouth, the memory dawning on him. Charlie still looked a bit confused, but the conversation had obviously rung a bell for him. But Frank?

“That was serious?” He almost laughed.

“Yes, Frank, it was serious,” Dee replied coldly. “What sort of psychiatrist diagnoses you with something for a joke?”

“Well, I don’t know!” Frank shrugged, walking to the bar and grabbing a beer out as if nothing was wrong. “What even is Borderline Personality Disorder? Sounds stupid.”

“What, did you not do a bit of research after finding out he had it?” Dee responded, shocked. Frank shook his head, at which point she turned to Mac and Charlie. “You two?”

“Well no, I didn’t really see the big deal at the time,” Charlie scratched the back of his neck. Dee turned her attention to Mac.

“Mac?”

“I was going to but... I figured it would invade his privacy, so I didn’t. And then...” he trailed off, fiddling with the hem of his shirt as he was one to do when he was nervous. “It just kinda fell out of my mind. It was never mentioned again, you know?”

Dee shook her head in disdain.

“Well, assholes, I looked it up that night,” she pursed her lips, nose twitching. “It’s kind of quite serious. And actually? It makes a lot of sense. Research it, maybe? Especially you, Frank. If Dennis is bad at the moment, which he obviously is, then you all need to understand what’s going on with him so you don’t make it any worse.”

“But,” Mac chewed his lip. “I don’t think Dennis would want me to do that. I don’t, I don’t know, think he wants me to care,” Mac sniffed self-consciously, clenching his jaw. “He said he hates me so like... I guess I need to just step back a bit.”

“Jesus Mac, listen to yourself!” Dee exclaimed. “If you had the balls to do a bit of reading, you’d understand that Dennis is acting this way towards you for a reason. Fuck me, I mean, do I really have to baby you all like this?”

Mac said nothing, nor did Charlie.

“So,” Frank said almost quietly. “Dennis is like... actually ill?”

“Yes, douchebag,” Dee sighed.

“He’s ill. Mental ill,” Frank pulled a strange, contorted expression, as if he were trying to process it. “My boy.”

“Don’t act like you care now, dick,” Dee snapped. Mac sat down at a booth, and Charlie just stood stationary, obviously deep in thought. Dee softened. “Look, if you really want to show you care, do some fucking research. But for God’s sake, don’t talk to him about it. I don’t think Dennis took the diagnosis seriously either, and I expect it’s long gone from his asshole brain.”

Mac licked his lips that had suddenly gone very dry, and closed his eyes. 

Charlie finally spoke up. 

“Should we go after him?”

“I...” Dee started to say, before trailing off, shaking her head in doubt. “I honestly don’t know.”

Frank sipped his beer, but didn’t chip in. Mac kept his eyes closed for a moment, exhaling deeply. He looked up, after a minute or so, to see everyone’s eyes on him.

Mac forced a smile, but it was half-hearted and empty. The gang saw through this, but Mac had no idea what to say or what to do.

“Dee, do you have any cigarettes?” Mac asked, trying his best to speak in his normal tone of voice.

Dee rifled through her bag and found a pack, with a couple of cigarettes left.

“Yeah,” she nodded, pulling one out. Mac stood from the booth seat and approached her, taking it from her hand with a nod of gratitude, before heading out to the front of the building. The door closed behind him, and silence resumed.

After a few seconds, Charlie shrugged his shoulders and clicked his neck, trying to relieve some tension.

“Dee, cigarette,” he ordered.

“Christ, you too?” Dee snapped, but didn’t protest, handing him her last cigarette hesitantly. Charlie walked to the door, and as he exited, Dee shouted after him, “you owe me a cigarette, asshole!”

The door closed, and Charlie looked left and right, to see Mac sitting on the pavement a couple of feet from the bar door. He was lighting his cigarette, face a little drained. At least he wasn’t crying like last night, Charlie thought to himself. He wouldn’t know how to deal with that again.

Mac looked up and smiled a small, tired smile. Charlie echoed this, and sat down beside Mac, grunting as he grazed his hand against the pavement. Wordlessly, Mac passed Charlie his lighter. They both sat in silence, smoking as the summer sun beat down onto the sidewalk. 

“Fuck, right?” Charlie said quietly.

Mac sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke. 

“Yeah. Fuck,” he nodded. “I’d totally forgotten about that day, you know? And it just hasn’t crossed my mind since. I feel kinda shitty about it.”

“Right? I feel kinda shitty too,” Charlie agreed, leaning gently against the brick wall of Paddy’s Pub. “Have you got any idea what it is?”

“What, the disorder thingy?” Mac raised an eyebrow in thought. “Nah, don’t think I do.”

“What do you say we look it up on the computer in the back office in a minute?” Charlie suggested, to which Mac pursed his lips, but not in irritation, just in defeat. 

“We should,” Mac nodded, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Dude, can I bare my heart to you for a minute?”

“Always, bro.”

“It’s just,” Mac started, licking his lips in thought. “I just want him to know that I’m- we’re- here for him. But he’s so fucking averse to that shit. I...”

Charlie didn’t say anything. The man could be a bit clueless sometimes, and sure, he wasn’t traditionally intelligent. But Mac was realising that after last night, and his reaction to Mac talking in that moment, Charlie was the most intelligent out of all of them. He knew his cues, he knew when to stop and listen, he knew how to be a good friend. He was incredibly well-adjusted, as Dee’s therapist had once said.

“I just want him to know that I care, but I don’t know how to approach that. After he said he hates me, anyway,” Mac just spoke his train of thought; he’d known Charlie long enough to entrust him with this. “I don’t want him to hate me, dude. He means... a lot to me.”

Charlie hummed in thought.

“Dude,” he started, to which Mac looked up quizzically. Charlie puffed on his cigarette, squinting as the sun appeared from behind a cloud. “This is gonna sound ridiculous, but like...”

“What?”

“Do you like have some sort of, I dunno, weird gay crush on Dennis?” Charlie asked, and Mac felt his stomach turn to stone. How in the fuck was he supposed to respond to that when he didn’t even know the answer himself?

If Mac was honest with himself, he’d never considered his appeal to Dennis a gay thing, or a crush thing. But as Charlie suggested it, a little awkwardly, Mac could feel himself panic. Maybe he did. How was he to know?

Mac chose to laugh, maybe a little to enthusiastically. Charlie frowned in confusion.

“Me? Gay? Dennis? Come on, dude,” Mac spluttered, putting on his best performance. But Mac never had been good at acting, and Charlie could see right through it. He quirked a knowing smile, and looked away from Mac once more, taking another draw from his cigarette. Mac scowled. “What’s that smile for?”

“Oh, uh, nothing,” Charlie raised an eyebrow, realising that he was down to the butt of his cigarette. He stubbed it out against the pavement.

“I swear to God dude, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking I will THROTTLE YOU-“

“This is a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think Mac?” Charlie smirked to himself. “Almost like you’re trying to, I don’t know, compensate for something.”

“Fuck you dude, seriously fuck you-!”

“It’s cool Mac, my lips are sealed,” Charlie looked back to Mac, who was looking at Charlie with a desperately mixed up expression. Charlie softened the cocky look on his face, and shrugged. Mac held eye contact for a moment, opening his mouth to argue, before shutting it again. He took a final, drawn out drag from his cigarette til it was done. He flicked it onto the road, and shrunk against the wall, picking at a thread on his navy pants.

“Mean it?”

“Your secrets safe with me.”

“It’s just you’re not the most... I don’t know, secretive guy,” Mac mumbled, looking away from Charlie adamantly.

“Yeah but this is serious shit though, dude. You really think I’d let you down like that?”

“I guess not.”

“Well there we go,” Charlie finished, punching Mac’s knee gently.

There was silence for a moment, Mac chewing the inside of his lip.

“You think he’s alright?” He asked quietly, still picking at the thread, even though it was beginning to rip a hole. 

Charlie sighed heavily, scratching his forehead.

“I don’t know, dude. I really don’t know.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was 11am and Dennis was sat on a bench at the local park. He hadn’t gone back to Dee’s flat in case any of the gang followed him after he’d left - here, they wouldn’t know where to find him, and he needed time to process what he was about to do.

He’d been looking at his phone for about ten minutes, hand trembling uncontrollably as his thumb hovered over the screen. This was pathetic. He’d gotten himself into such a state, and over what? Hearing Mac have a bitchy little cry? Realising that he, himself, wasn’t actually a very good person? These things weren’t new. He’d seen Mac cry plenty before, he’d accepted that he was a piece of shit decades ago. But in the last month, and especially in the last week, his mindset had practically deteriorated, making him lose his best friend, and lose his mind.

Best friend. Dennis scoffed, closing his eyes as he bit his lip. Could he even call Mac that at this point? Dennis had a very different relationship with Mac than he did with Charlie, for example. With Charlie he was pretty comfortable, although there always seemed to be a level of self-protection when around Charlie. With Mac? He wasn’t comfortable, or at least he hadn’t been since Mac had begun to realise that Dennis was a little more complex than what met the eye.

On one day, Dennis could hate Mac with his entire being. On another day, Dennis would almost yearn to be around him, to spend time with him, to be near him. His smell, his slicked back hair, his wide eyes, his dumb fucking smile. He’d never had such complex and varying emotions for somebody for somebody before and it was starting to tear Dennis apart.

So yeah, he’d be hesitant to describe Mac as a best friend. In a way, Dennis loved Mac. Perhaps not in a romantic way, at least he didn’t think. But he loved him nonetheless, and as the years had passed, Dennis’ God damn bastard brain had dealt with that worse and worse. 

His phone buzzed, and after that train of thought, his heart stopped and eyes widened, looking at the screen instantly, desperately. He checked the notification, only to see that it was an email from his bank saying that his invoice was ready. His jaw trembled, and he squeezed his phone so hard his knuckles went white.

That was the moment Dennis needed, in a way. Seeing himself react the way he did when he saw that a notification wasn’t from Mac? He needed some fucking help.

And so, he stopped hesitating. He brought up the therapist office’s number and hit dial, his knee beginning to bounce as he held the phone to his ear.

A calming male voice answered the phone.

“Smith and Dickinson Psychiatry, how may I help you?”

“Hi, uh,” Dennis swallowed a persistent lump in his throat, tapping his bouncing leg as he tried to put together a coherent sentence. “Uh, I was just phoning to enquire about... a-... about booking a therapy session with somebody? Like uh... as soon as possible?”

“Of course, sir,” the gentle voice replied. It was soothing. “Have you seen us before?”

“No.”

“Okay,” the man said. “Can I take your name, please?”

“Yeah sure, it’s um, it’s Dennis Reynolds,” Dennis spoke as clearly as he could, despite the relentless wobble to his voice.

“Okay Dennis, and your date of birth?”

“18th of August, 1976,” he responded, chewing his lips as there was a brief silence. He could hear keys tapping, when the male voice spoke up once more.

“Sure thing,” the man said. “Do you intend to see us regularly, Dennis?”

“Well, I-...” he frowned, not expecting that question. “I was just hoping to uh, see how I got on with the first session? And then like... see if that’s for me. I mean I don’t know if that’s possible dude, I’ve never really done therapy before.” He was starting to calm down, his leg ceasing the erratic movements, although the hand holding the phone was shaking a little.

“Of course, that’s how many people start out with us,” the man said. “Would you rather see a male or female therapist, or are you not too fussed?”

“I don’t mind,” Dennis said. Of course, he’d rather see a male, but he wasn’t about to limit who he was able to see if he was hoping to see somebody as soon as possible.

“Okay...” more keyboard tapping. “So the nearest appointment I have that could be available for you is with a Dr Lander. She’s wonderful, in my opinion. I don’t know anybody who hasn’t got on with her.”

“And when will that be?” Dennis asked, not caring for small talk. His hand stopped shaking. 

“Well, it’s quite soon if you’re available,” the operator said. “This Thursday, at 10am? That’s the 14th.”

“Sure, sure,” Dennis said, nodding in response which in retrospect was completely ridiculous, as nobody was there to see his response. 

“Okay Dennis, I’ll book you in,” the calm voice clarified, and although Dennis felt pathetic and nervous and weak for ever resorting to therapy, he felt as though a weight had been lifted off his chest. “If I could just get some contact details?”

***

Mac and Charlie were sat in the back office together. Charlie was trying his best to type into Google, grunting frustratedly when nothing that he was searching for was making sense. Mac wasn’t paying attention. He’d been writing and rewriting a single text to Dennis for the last ten minutes, totally clueless about what the fuck to say. 

“Dude, a little help here?” Charlie raised an eyebrow, as Mac typed the final letters of this draft of the message.

“Yeah whatever, hold on,” Mac said, irritated, not looking up from his phone. Charlie huffed, and rapped the desk with his knuckles rhythmically. “Do you reckon this text is gonna be alright?”

“Let me have a look,” Charlie took the phone from Mac, and squinted.

‘You okay dude? Let me know’ the text read.

“... what are you trying to say, here?” Charlie asked quizzically. “Are you texting in Spanish or something now?”

“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” Mac snatched his phone back, pinching his forehead. “It says ‘you okay dude? Let me know’... In English.”

“Oh,” Charlie paused, shrugging. “It took you ten minutes to write that?”

“Yeah, and what?”

“Well it’s just... it’s not very romantic, is it?”

Mac closed his eyes in sheer frustration.

“Fuck Charlie, I’m not trying to seduce the guy. I just wanna make sure he’s not like... well I don’t know, really bad?”

“Whatever, bro. Just send the text, and then help me with this computer thing because it’s just not understanding the words I type in.”

So Mac didn’t hesitate any further and pressed send, before putting his phone face down on the desk, anxious to hear back from Dennis.

“You’re illiterate dude, I swear to God,” Mac shook his head and pulled his chair closer to the computer, typing into the search bar ‘borderline personality disorder’. “Right okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”

Mac clicked on the first fairly informative looking website and began reading aloud, aware that Charlie wasn’t going to understand any of it without Mac's help.

“Okay so it looks like a personality disorder is, uh,” Mac scanned over the first paragraph of the website, furrowing his brow. “Uh, when a person is like, significantly different to how normal people function? Like, in the way they feel and think and relate to people.”

“Well, that sounds like Dennis,” Charlie nodded obviously. “Are there more personality disorder things then?”

“Looks like it, but let’s not get distracted,” said Mac, scrolling down. “I think this website is basically saying that people with this have uh, emotional instability.”

“Makes sense.”

“A distorted view of reality?”

“Well yeah, he literally thinks he’s God or something.”

“I mean, yeah,” Mac raised an eyebrow. “Impulsive behaviour.”

“The crack, the sex, the random schemes that come out of nowhere,” Charlie listed, understanding what Mac was saying with clarity, for once.

“And...” Mac trailed off as he read the next sentence, pausing to itch the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Intense and unstable relationships with people.”

Charlie didn’t say anything to this one. He just looked at Mac, nodding slowly, before looking away, unable to watch the journey Mac’s face was going through. It was confusion, it was understanding, it was pain. He squeezed his eyes closed, and opened the tab that was available underneath that particular symptom and began to read.

“Uh...” Mac licked his lips that had suddenly become very dry, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Says here that people with BPD can be a bit over the top and do everything in their power to stop people from leaving which Dennis... absolutely does not do.”

“Right.”

“But, it also says that if they don’t do that, it’s like that some people with BPD have unstable relationships because they purposefully push people away? Like, because they get overwhelmed by the close relationship and feel crowded and...”

Charlie frowned.

“Uh, apparently these people will potentially verbally abuse, or withdraw, because... hold on, this is hard to take on,” Mac frowned, biting his lip as he read over the paragraph. “So people with BPD are so scared that people are gonna leave them, they do it first, to avoid abandonment.”

Charlie stared into his lap, totally unsure of how to respond, how to comfort Mac.

“Shit,” he just mumbled. “Yeah, um. That... that makes sense, right?”

“I think so,” Mac nodded, massaging the sides of his forehead. “It kind of explains why Dennis has always reacted the way he has in the past. And I guess... well. I don’t know.”

“No, go on dude.”

“Do you reckon that explains why he said that he hated me?” Mac asked tentatively. “Because we’d actually been quite close before suburbs, and maybe moving into that environment, Dennis felt crowded and overwhelmed and just, snapped? Like, he doesn’t hate me?”

“I’m not a shrink, bro. I couldn’t tell you,” Charlie shrugged, not particularly wanting to confirm nor deny Mac’s theory. “Keep reading.”

“Okay,” Mac sniffed, trying to retain a bit of dignity after his desperate line of questioning. “So people with this thing see relationships as black and white. They either love you, or hate you. And they often have a thing called a ‘favourite person’? Where the love/hate paradigm is more intense...” he trailed off, lip twitching as he thought.

“You reckon you’re his favourite person, right?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?”

“It’d make sense,” Charlie said simply. “Dennis isn’t this God damn difficult with the rest of us, is he?”

“I guess not...”

“Exactly,” Charlie said. “Look dude, this is obviously like, totally upsetting you now. Let’s go get a beer, look at the rest of it later. Yeah?”

Mac closed the tab hastily, nodding hesitantly, before looking up, alert. His phone had buzzed. Immediately he picked it up and unlocked it, waiting for the ancient phone to load so he could see what the notification was.

It was a message from Dennis.

Mac opened it, brow furrowed, relieved that he’d answered and desperate that it was going to be something sincere.

It was a thumbs up. Nothing else, just an emoji thumbs up. Mac threw his phone down onto the desk, unrelenting frustration but also overwhelming empathy making him tremble. Charlie didn’t even ask to see the message.

“Beer?”

“Yeah. Fucking beer.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: severe self harm

It was the same day, but daylight was dwindling as evening became night. It was the height of summer, so although it was 10:00pm, the sun was setting, casting orange and pink hues onto the city of Philadelphia. 

Dennis hadn’t gone back to the bar that day. He’d been thinking to himself, all day, wandering round the city, browsing certain boring shops he’d never been in, chain-smoking, and sometimes just sitting on a bench, motionless for sometimes hours at a time, so wrapped up in his own God damn psyche, that even though he was people watching, he could only bring himself to think about himself and his own situation.

Truth be told, when Mac had messaged him that morning, his heart had skipped a beat, but when he’d read the sparse message, he felt himself boil up. He’d sent a thumbs up in reply, passive aggressively, but since Mac had messaged, he’d been checking his phone periodically in case he’d sent a more heartfelt, thoughtful, normal message. Dennis received no such message.

All day, his mind had been on one thing. After the gang seeing him like that, after crying and drinking himself to sleep, he’d been able to think of nothing else.

So, there he was, at 10:00pm, pacing up and down the isles of a local superstore. It was practically empty, which Dennis almost didn’t like - something about this action made him feel lonely, and even if he was surrounded by strangers, it might make him feel, at least marginally, better.

He found the isle with the toiletries, right besides the pharmacy. He hadn’t really considered the consequences to the actions he was going to go through with, and he didn’t want to. So, he felt totally neutral about it, walking towards the razors. At this point, it didn’t even seem daunting, nor upsetting - he was just shopping for some necessities.

He glanced up and down the isle, looking at all the assembled razors that people used to shave. He couldn’t be bothered to break one of those up - it seemed like too much effort. So, he kept looking, beginning to lose hope at the dismal array of sharps that were never intended for this purpose. Just before he was about to walk away, however, he noticed a little cardboard box, the brand of the superstore on the front. It was only $1, so he picked it up from the shelf. They were intended to replace razors that had rusted, for shaving with, but Dennis knew, looking at them, that only a minority of people would buy these particular razors for that purpose. $1 razors, separate from the rest of the vanity products? That was suicide bait. He didn’t care, though. It’s not like he wanted to die, and it’s not like he was gonna kill himself. He just wanted to see if this desire he’d been having was going to have the intended effect. 

He took them to the checkout, the only one that was open, and waited behind an old woman who was buying cat food and butterscotch sweets. She took an infuriatingly long time to pay, counting each cent out one by one. Dennis tapped his foot in annoyance, huffing so audibly, the till operator gave him a stern look. Dennis rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. The old lady had finally paid, and hobbled out of the shop. 

Dennis didn’t engage in any conversation with the cashier. She was pretty, and normally he’d hit on her, but recently, Dennis had found no interest in girls. After Maureen, he realised he wasn’t cut out for a serious relationship, and the impulsive one night stands just weren’t doing it for him anymore. So he didn’t bother even looking at her, not even when she curtly announced the price of the razors. He handed her a dollar, and without even waiting for the receipt, he walked out, shoving the box deep into his jean pocket.

It was too early for Mac and Dee to be home, so he figured it’d be fine to go back there. And hopefully, nobody would notice anyway - Dennis almost always wore long sleeves, and he didn’t really want to do a lot of damage. This wasn’t about self-hatred, or the desire to genuinely wound himself. This was for the release, the emotions, something that he could only just brush when he was drunk. It’d never been enough. He needed this.

He climbed into his car and drove the very short journey back to Dee’s flat, his mind totally blank. He didn’t even think about what he was going to do, didn’t even think about Mac. Mac? Not that he’d think about him normally.

He got the elevator up to Dee’s floor and walked to her flat, pushing open the door which Dee almost always carelessly left unlocked. He opened the door slowly, and the hinges creaked. Nobody was in. Thank fuck.

He switched the light on, and without even taking his shoes off, walked straight to the bathroom, purely because if he did bleed, it wouldn’t get all over the bed or sofa where questions would be asked. If he was being honest with himself, Dennis had no idea what to expect. How hard to press, how deep to go, how much it would bleed.

He closed the bathroom door behind him, and sat on the rim of the bath, taking a deep but steady breath in. Suddenly, thoughts started to flood his mind, and he couldn’t stop it. It wasn’t particularly emotional, more annoying, and distracting. Inconvenient.

The first thing that came to his head was Mac. Again, Mac. Always, Mac. It was fucking frustrating, that whenever Dennis started to think about, Christ, anything, Mac was the first thing that popped into his head. It was different today, though. He didn’t think about how annoying Mac was, or how much he wanted to run away from him or push him away. Instead, he carelessly imagined Mac, knocking on Dennis’ door. Suddenly, they were back in their old flat, before it had burned down, as if none of that had ever happened. He imagined him getting out of bed, opening the door, and Mac hugging him, tight. He imagined how Mac’s soft but muscular arms would feel holding Dennis’ feeble body.

Dennis frowned, and looked at the floor, confused at his own train of thought. He scratched his eyebrow, and tried to refocus. His brain, stubbornly, developed this daydream, leaving Dennis totally shocked.

He imagined Mac’s hands on his lower back, and how warm his palms would feel through Dennis’ t-shirt. He imagined burying his face into Mac’s neck, and feeling the neck stubble gently scratch his forehead, and smelling his aftershave - Drakkar Noir. He imagined Mac nudging Dennis’ chin, and half-smiling at him, with those God damn puppy dog eyes that Dennis always weakened at. And he imagined Mac kissing his cheek, his nose, his forehead, before finally his lips.

In Dennis’ imagination, Mac tasted like beer. And in Dennis’ imagination, Mac was clumsy at kissing. He could practically feel his hand resting against Dennis’ neck, Mac’s lips on his jaw.

He imagined them sitting down on Dennis’ bed, and he imagined Mac breaking away to look at Dennis. He could feel himself under Mac’s gaze, he could notice Mac looking at Dennis’ forearm, and kissing his wrist, atop faded scars. Because apparently, in his imagination, his scars were old enough to have healed. In his imagination, Dennis’ brain wasn’t a bitch anymore, and in his imagination, Mac didn’t condescend Dennis about his mental health. 

In his imagination, Mac loved him the way that Dennis loves Mac in real life.

That was a realisation. He loved Mac, apparently. Deep down, he’d always known he’d had feelings for Mac. He’d never been just a friend. But this was new, and Dennis was expecting it to hurt. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel neutral, either. In fact, Dennis didn’t feel anything.

His brain diverted. He was no longer imagining what could be with Mac, but remembering what was with Mac. The way Mac’s face had contorted into confusion, and heartbreak, and anger. The way Dennis had screamed at him, told him that he hated him. The way Dennis wanted the ground to swallow him up so he’d never have to face Mac again after that. 

Fantasies about Mac loving him back were all very well and good, if they were realistic. But if Dennis was being honest with himself, Mac was never, ever going to feel the same way about him. Not after the suburbs. Not after seeing him that morning, seeing Dennis for who he really was. Nobody would love Dennis after that, let alone Mac. 

Fuck.

He still didn’t feel anything. These were all observations. And finally, he was ready. He knew what to do.

Calmly, he fished the box of razors out of his pocket, and opened it, fiddling with the cardboard fastening. There were ten, maybe, protected in a little plastic box. Secretly, without even acknowledging this, Dennis kinda wanted the mere sight of them to make him feel something; hurt, heartbreak, relief, happiness. Nothing happened, so he opened the box and carefully took out a razor, careful not to cut his fingertips on the sharp edges.

He put the box on the sink, and placed the razor atop his thigh, resting on his jeans. Maybe the act of rolling up his sleeves would do something for him - he turned up his collar, looking at his hauntingly blue-green veins. Nothing. Fucking nothing. Always nothing. Fuck.

Well, maybe not nothing. The one thing he did feel was desperation, which in hindsight, was the worst emotion to feel when holding a razor to your wrist. This is because Dennis had no experience of this, and didn’t realise that being as vigorous as he was would end badly.

One cut, and his breath hitched, heart pounding. It felt good. Why the fuck did this feel good? His mind was clouded, and didn’t even stop to notice the blood already dripping from his wrist, and went again. And again. And... again, and again, and again, up and down his forearm. God it hurt. Physically, sure. But it made him feel alive, ironically. He could feel every ounce of his soul erupting, pulsating through his body, for maybe thirty seconds, top. 

But then, he dropped the razor, and it clattered to the laminated floor. And suddenly, he felt dizzy, weak, sick, and he brung himself back down to the real world. And when he was there, and present, and... well, something, he looked down at his arm, wondering why it was making him feel this out of sorts. He winced, biting his lip with vigour, and he felt his jaw tremble.

That was... too much. It was too much, far too much, and now it didn’t feel good at all. Now, it felt even worse than before - not numb, anymore, but feeling too much all at once. Feeling everything. Plus, it hurt like a bitch, his hand trembling.

“Fuck,” he spat, feeling a tear fall, and grabbed the nearest towel that was hanging on a hook on the wall. He didn’t take the time to process whose towel it was. It didn’t really matter. He had to stop the bleeding, but somehow, Dennis knew that holding a towel to them wasn’t going to make much of a difference.

Another tear fell, but he wasn’t sobbing, not yet. His breath was unsteady, however, mostly out of fear that because he’d gone too far, he had to call for help. It wasn’t bad enough for an ambulance, Dennis didn’t think. Plus, he wasn’t paying for that out of his own pocket, and under the circumstances, he doubted Frank would be all that willing to bail him out.

He reached for his phone, chewing the inside of his cheeks erratically, and scrolled through his very few contacts. 

All he wanted was Mac, but the last thing he wanted was Mac. Frank was no good, for obvious reasons, and Charlie would panic, and not have a clue what to do. His only option was his insufferable twin sister, who he was also extraordinarily reluctant to call. But as he could feel himself start to get a bit faint, he pushed himself into the empty bathtub, so he could lie back, and realised that he wasn’t going to be able to deal with this on his own.

He dialled the number, and held the phone to his ear.

Dee answered almost immediately.

“What’s up, dick?”

“Are you busy?”

Dee went silent.

“I mean, not really?” Dee shrugged. “I’m at Paddy’s, but the bar’s fucking dead. There’s not really much I have to do. Although I am enjoying watching Mac and Charlie have a drunken dance off to ABBA.”

“Come back to your flat a minute?”

“Why?” She asked suspiciously, and Dennis could practically hear her eyes narrow. “Are...” there was a silence, where she exhaled, preparing herself for the next words. “Are you okay?”

Dennis didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to lie, so she wouldn’t make a big deal to the gang. Part of him wanted to be honest, so she’d get there quickly - he didn’t know how much longer he could spend on his own like this.

“Kind of,” Dennis said with as clear a voice as possible. “It doesn’t matter, I just need you to come round.”

Another silence.

“Please?” Dennis added quietly, and without intending it to, his voice wobbled slightly.

“I’ll be right there,” Dee said, and as she said this, Dennis could hear her put a tray of glasses down and grab her keys. “Do you like, want me to stay on the phone or something?”

“Don’t fucking patronise me,” Dennis tried to snap, but couldn’t find it in him to raise his voice. “Just, for the love of God, don’t tell the gang that I asked you to come round. If they ask, you’re just uh... meeting up with, uh, Rex?”

“Like they’d believe that.”

“Don’t test me right now, Dee,” Dennis squeezed his eyes closed. 

“Okay, dickhead,” Dee scoffed, and Dennis could hear the bar door close behind her. “No questions asked, okay? I’ll be five minutes. Unless I get arrested for speeding, then you’re paying my bail.”

“Bitch,” Dennis muttered and hung up, his breath quivering as he dropped his phone into his lap. He noticed that his jeans were stained with fairly big patches of blood, and he looked down at his hand, which was still trembling. He was in quite a bit of pain, nothing that wasn’t manageable. He was mostly just viscerally upset at himself, more than anything, for being so reckless and so fucking stupidly impulsive, so much so that he couldn’t deal with a few wounds himself. What was he, a pussy?

Dennis shook his head. He wasn’t a pussy, he didn’t think. There had been a bit too much blood, which to some people, the sight of would make them pass out instantly. It wasn’t the blood that was making him feel weak and faint, or at least he didn’t think. He assumed that it was the deplorable state his mind was in, how he was feeling more than he’d ever wanted too before. He was in a conundrum, however. Did he prefer the feeling of being overwhelmed by emotions, or did he prefer being numb?

If only there was somebody to get him out of this jam. Maybe his therapist could help him with that.

He rested the back of his head against the bath, chewing his lip and trying his darnedest not to cry. He held the towel against his forearm, tight, applying as much pressure as he could without it aching too much. It seemed stupid, to not let himself cry. Dee was going to walk in to see what he’d done to himself. She almost definitely wouldn’t be surprised by tears, so why stop them from falling? Something deeply ingrained, deeply repressed. It was embarrassing, if nothing else.

Time passed agonisingly slowly, and Dennis had closed his eyes by this point. He hadn’t passed out, he just needed to blot everything out. The sight of the towel, the blood on his jeans, the razor on the floor, it all made him feel terrible. Best not to look. Eventually, however, Dennis heard the front door burst open. He bit his lip as his stomach twisted in terror, self-conscious awareness. She’d never seen him in a state like this, and they were pushing fourty now.

“Dennis?” She asked, obviously trying to play off her concern, but as she was a terrible actor, it didn’t play very well. Dennis could hear her footsteps frantically run through the house, preparing himself for when she’d inevitably appear in the doorway of the bathroom. This was... the worst outcome. God, he was a fucking idiot. Jesus Christ.

Dee poked her head around the door, and her face fell in horror. She almost burst into tears, closing her eyes for a second, taking a short moment to compose herself, before rushing over to him, kneeling beside the bath.

“Jesus, Dennis...” Dee mumbled. Dennis had never seen such a deeply emotional expression on his twin’s face before, and honestly? It just made him hurt more. This was his fault. She reached for the towel, before pausing, instead resting her hand on his shoulder. “Wh... why- like, ugh. Can you, like, help me understand?”

Dennis shrugged, and Dee took that as a sign that he didn’t want her hand on his shoulder, so she gently retrieved it. Dennis would normally be grateful for the space, but he suddenly felt very cold and empty without that comfort. What had happened to the Dennis who couldn’t stand this sort of empathetic compassion from others? Maybe it was because of the tidal wave of emotions he was feeling, maybe it was the fact that this hurt he’d inflicted on himself put things into perspective a little. Either way, Dennis immediately made eye contact with her. His jaw was shaking pathetically, and his eyes were still brimming with tears. Dee blinked, and shook her head, placing her hand atop the one of his that was putting pressure on the towel. 

“Dennis,” Dee whispered. “Please, asshole. Tell me what happened.”

He looked away again. He couldn’t deal with all that much emotional intimacy at once, so he allowed himself to be comforted by her hand on his.

“I’ve been... not great, recently?”

“Well, I figured that much out,” Dee almost laughed, but softly, barely a breath. “I didn’t realise you were suicidal though, dude.”

“Oh, I’m- I’m not suicidal,” Dennis shook his head, taking a shaky breath. How was he supposed to explain this shit? “I just ran out of stuff that made me feel normal. It started with sex, you know? And then drinking, and then crack, and then, like...” Dennis shook his foot back and forth, closing his eyes as he tried to piece together words to describe this secret of his. “Not eating enough, like. On purpose. The feeling of being hungry and getting slimmer it just, it helped. You know?”

Dee nodded silently, frown ever present.

“But it all stopped working, after years of doing it all. And I guess I saw this as my last option to really make me like... feel shit, like I always used to?” He asked that as a question, hoping that Dee would understand. She swallowed, and squeezed his hand.

“I need to see your wounds, Dennis,” she asked tentatively. “See if we need to go to a hospital, get you stitched up.”

“Whatever, do what you want,” Dennis swallowed. “Obviously, if I don’t need to go to hospital I, uh, won’t. Because it’s money I don’t have, and Frank isn’t gonna bail me out over something like this.”

“Frank is an asshole, sure,” Dee nodded, running her thumb over the back of his hand that was still shaking. “But he’s not completely idiotic. He might not be happy to help, but he won’t have a choice.”

Dennis shrugged, sniffing. Dee patted his hand, taking a deep breath.

“Gonna look now,” Dee warned, as she carefully took the towel off. Dennis winced, exhaling a loud, shaky breath as the fibres of the towel came unstuck from his wounds.

She took the towel off agonisingly slowly, so as to limit the pain, and immediately recoiled, sucking her teeth. Dennis caught her eye for a split second, before looking down at something, anything that wasn’t Dee and her expression.

“So?” Dennis whispered.

“Get up,” Dee swallowed a lump in her throat, feeling tears well up but adamant to not let them fall. “Keep the towel on, they’re still bleeding a bit.”

“Let me guess,” Dennis said lowly, having chewed so hard on the inside of his cheek that it was starting to bleed. It didn’t stop him. “Hospital?”

“Yeah, asshole,” Dee stood up from where she’d been kneeling on the floor, before bending slightly to help Dennis get up. “Hospital.”

He pushed her attempts to help him up away, trying to use both of his hands to grip the sides of the tub to support his own weight. Barely half a second passed when he collapsed back into the bath. The towel had fallen from his arm, and after that measly attempt to stand up, he realised just how much pain he was in. Reluctantly, he looked up at Dee, who was waiting patiently for him to inevitably accept her help. She took his un-wounded arm with one hand, and supported him beneath his other arm, pulling him up with a bit of difficulty. Dennis grumbled incoherently, not too pleased about being this God damn incapable of taking care of himself. 

He was on his feet, and Dee held onto his side as he stepped out of the bathtub. He felt light-headed almost immediately, almost nauseous. He stumbled, and almost fell back, but Dee was gripping him almost a little too tight, as if she were afraid of what would happen if she let go. 

The siblings walked out of the bathroom and through to the lounge, where Dee stopped briefly to grab a colourful blanket off of her sofa. 

“... Why are you getting a fucking blanket?” Dennis said weakly, embarrassingly out of breath from either the exertion of moving in the pain he was in, or from the fact that his brain was going into panic mode. His emotions hadn’t gone back to usual - they were still intense, if not more than even ten minutes ago, and he was getting absolutely no respite. “It’s the middle of July.”

“Comfort,” she replied, swaddling it round his shoulders. “Don’t argue.”

“I... wasn’t going to.”

“Correct answer,” Dee said quietly as she guided him out of the flat, down the elevator and carefully into her car.

They didn’t share any more words together for a painfully long time. Neither of them knew what to say. Dee had helped Dennis with his seatbelt, before climbing into the drivers seat.

“If you’re sick in my car, I’ll kill you,” she said, cracking a broken smile at Dennis as she turned the key in the ignition. The car lights illuminated the darkening road before them, and as Dennis saw, like, really saw, how much of an effort Dee was making, he tried to smile back. The smile turned into a grimace, teeth clenched. He looked away immediately, and without any warning or heed, a sob wracked his body. Dee bit her lip and frowned deeply, patting his knee. “Hey, it’s okay. Those dicks at the hospital will sort you out. And... well, I assume the therapist’s number was for you. Did you get an appointment?”

Dennis snivelled pathetically, his uninjured arm supporting his hand that trembled by his mouth, fingers bumping erratically by his shaking lips. He nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered, taking her hand away from his knee, turning the air conditioning on to cool down the car. She connected her phone to the car’s Bluetooth and had a look on Spotify, knowing immediately what to search for. She pressed play, and Dennis’ favourite Steve Winwood album, Arc of a Diver, began to play. Dennis wheezed, overwhelmed by the love his sister was showing him, like she was making up for nearly fourty years of jabs and snide remarks. Dennis didn’t think she knew him that well - he was being proven wrong.

They drove for about five minutes, the music sensibly quiet, before Dee spoke up.

“Why that bad?”

Dennis had stopped sobbing, and now just had tears falling silently from his eyes. He was pressing the towel against his arm still, even though the wounds had probably stopped bleeding by that point. 

“I didn’t actually mean to,” he said quietly. “I just... I was sat there, on the bath, and like... I’d only intended to do just one, shallow, you know? See how it felt.”

“So...?” Dee prompted.

“I started thinking about... stuff. And it was stuff that should’ve made me feel a lot, and I just felt completely numb. So I just felt blind desperation, and the blade was in my hand and it just... it just happened.”

“What stuff?”

“Huh?”

“What stuff were you thinking about?”

Dennis licked his lips, which tasted salty from the tears that had seeped there, the tears he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. He didn’t feel like he needed to, now.

“It doesn’t matter-“

“You know, the doctors are gonna ask you these questions, and probably a lot more,” Dee snapped. “If you can’t get your shit together and tell me the bare minimum, how are you gonna cope with that?”

Dennis sniffed, irritated.

“So? What were you thinking about?”

Dennis was silent for a solid thirty seconds, but Dee had said her piece and now, was allowing him the space to consider his answer.

“Mac,” he whispered. Dee said nothing for a moment.

“He means that much to you, huh?”

“I told him I hated him,” Dennis croaked, closing his eyes as a new wave of tears threatened to spill. 

“That was stupid.”

“You think?” Dennis snapped, shooting a glare at her, his eyes suddenly wide open. Barely a second passed before he was retreating back into his seat, huddling himself into the blanket.

Dee took the hint, and didn’t say anything else for the rest of the journey. That was, until, she’d parked the car in the hospital car park, music turning off as the engine stopped.

“Dennis?” 

Dennis has stopped crying. He was no longer shaking, but exhausted, and although he felt like crashing and sleeping for a solid twenty four hours, he also couldn’t stand the idea of closing his eyes. What sort of dreams was he gonna have that night? The thought didn’t bare to think about.

“What?”

Dee opened her mouth, before closing it again, sighing heavily as if she were frustrated at her own inability to talk to Dennis about this.

Finally, she pulled herself together.

“Are you gay?” She asked almost silently. Dennis didn’t react, just stared blankly out of the car window at the other cars in the car park, illuminated by street lights with artificial yellow hues. “Dennis?”

“Let’s just go in,” Dennis said wearily. Truthfully, he didn’t know the answer to the question. He didn’t care, either. Not right then, anyway. Sure, maybe he was. Girls didn’t appeal to him anymore, and they only ever had done in the past because he was using them to make himself feel a bit more alive. The only person he’d really had true feelings for was Mac. So, maybe he was. But as he sat in the car with Dee, his arm throbbing, his mind spinning with every emotion he’d ever felt bombarding him all at once, he didn’t give a shit. “Please.”

“Okay,” Dee licked her lips in thought for a moment, before unbuckling her seatbelt. Dennis went to do his, but Dee grabbed his shoulder. “Stop it, idiot, you’ll hurt yourself. Just wait.”

She climbed out of the car and walked round to Dennis’ side, opening the car door. She unbuckled his seatbelt and supported him in getting out of the car. They walked to the hospital together, one of Dee’s arms round his shoulder, one of her hands holding his bicep. 

They got to the front doors of the emergency unit, and Dee squeezed his bicep gently.

“Come on then,” Dee offered him a comforting smile. “You can do this, yeah?”

Dennis said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.

“You’re the Golden God, aren't you?” She chuckled, which almost made the corner of his lips upturn. The automatic doors opened, and Dennis nodded. And so, they walked in together.

***

It was 1:00am, and Dennis was laying in a hospital bed. Dee was on the phone outside his room, and sat by his bedside was a young male doctor, carefully stitching his wounds up. Dennis had had stitches before, after getting into fights or falling over or accidentally cutting himself on a broken beer bottle, so it wasn’t an unusual feeling. It just felt very intrusive and personal, as a man he’d never met before was this up close to the self-inflicted wounds. 

“How are you feeling, man?” Asked the nurse. He was onto the last wound now.

“Fine,” Dennis lied, although his deeply sunken facial expression said otherwise. The doctor stopped what he was doing and looked up at Dennis, shaking his head.

“You don’t need to pretend here, you know,” he said reassuringly. “We’re here to help, and honestly, if you’re not totally candid with us about what’s going on in that head up there, we can’t keep you safe.”

“Everyone’s talking as if I’m a danger to myself,” Dennis scowled as the doctor refocused his attention on Dennis’ arm. “I’m not.”

“Aren’t you?” The doctor asked. “Would you not call these wounds dangerous?”

“Well-“ Dennis grit his teeth. “Well, it’s not like I’m gonna kill myself. Everyone’s treating me as if I’m a suicidal maniac - I’m not.”

“I believe you,” the doctor said, almost finished at this point. He was speedy, Dennis could give him that. “But even if this wasn’t intended to end your life, you still hurt yourself pretty badly, man. And if that were ever to go wrong, it would certainly be dangerous. You’ve also got to understand the risk of infection, and complications like that. Obviously, I’m not trying to tell you not to do this to yourself - it’s not my place, I’m not a psychiatrist. I’m just saying, you know. It is dangerous, and I want you to understand that’s why we’re taking it so seriously.”

Dennis snuffed indignantly.

“We care, you know. It’s our jobs.”

“Thanks,” Dennis said quietly, but didn’t elaborate. Another minute passed, and then the doctor was finished. He gave the stitched wounds a final clean, before covering them first with a medical adhesive wound dressing, before wrapping the forearm in bandages, tightly and securely but as gently as possible.

“There, now you don’t have to keep looking down at them, at least until we redress you,” the doctor stood up, and put all of the used medical bits into a little yellow portable bin that was on the table he’d been resting Dennis’ arm on. It was then, Dee entered the room, pocketing her phone. “If you need any painkillers, let us know straight away. The on-call psychiatrist has a few people on his list before he can see you, but it will be within two hours. Til then? Sit tight. And if you need us, just press your call bell.”

Dennis nodded and tried for a smile. The doctor obviously appreciated the effort, and gave him a friendly wink, patting the end of the bed, before carrying out the medical stuff he’d been using, closing the door behind him. Dee took a seat on the chair beside Dennis’ bed.

“Frank’s happy to pay,” Dee said, feeling a little more together now she’d had a few hours to process what had happened. “He’s coming in the morning.”

“And that’s the only person you phoned?” Dennis asked sternly. “Because we had an agreement - if you phoned Mac, I’m going to be so fucking angry...”

“Why?” Dee asked sharply, looking at him cluelessly. “It would do you good to see him. Can’t you see that?”

“It would be a terrible idea,” Dennis said, running his fingers over his bandages with a feather touch. “You didn’t phone him, right?”

“No,” Dee said. “But you need to get over yourself.”

Dennis scowled.

“Thanks so much for that life-changing fucking advice,” he said, pursing his lips. He reached for the plastic cup of water he’d been given and took a small sip.

Dee shut up at that point, and scrolled through her phone mindlessly for a bit. Dennis had that option - his phone was on the table, but he didn’t have the mental capacity to start scrolling through Facebook, to see all these positive posts about how all these distant friends he hadn’t seen since college were doing so well. It made him queasy, and he didn’t have time for it.

So he sat in silence. And after a short while, he must’ve fallen asleep, because all he could remember was being nudged awake. He didn’t open his eyes, turning away sharply and covering his face with the synthetic smelling pillow.

“Fuck off, Dee, I’m tired.”

A moment of silence followed.

“Den.”

Dennis froze, and immediately felt his stomach boil with rage, but at the same time, felt his eyes sting with tears, and his heart pound. 

“Go home, Mac,” Dennis tried to say firmly, but his voice cracked. Mortified, he curled into the thin bed sheets even closer, in a foetal position. He felt the bed sink a little as Mac sat down, and honestly, Dennis didn’t know how to feel about that. Mac rested his hand very cautiously on Dennis’ shoulder. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mac said softly, and after a moment of Dennis allowing his hand to remain on his shoulder, Mac drew little circles atop the grossly patterned hospital gown.

Something about those words hit Dennis somewhere deep, which made him curl up tighter. His eyes were squeezed close, and his jaw was clenched, but even through all his attempts to prevent his tears, they somehow managed to find their way down his face. It was different in front of Dee. Still embarrassing, yeah. But it was different. Crying in front of Mac was just plain soul-aching. 

He thought back to earlier that night, as he sat on the edge of the bath, and imagined Mac hugging him, kissing him, being with him. He remembered that he loved him, and he remembered that he didn’t feel the same way. And so, although it killed him to do it, he cried, and slowly, the tears were no longer silent. He made the mistake of drawing a sharp intake of breath, to which he bit the pillow to muffle it, as if Mac hadn’t heard it. 

“Dennis, dude...” Mac said so quietly it was almost impossible to hear. He held tighter onto Dennis’ shoulder, before letting go. Dennis’ breath hitched - he just wanted Mac’s hand on his shoulder. Had he let go because he hated Dennis back? Because he was going to leave? Because he was sick of him-

He felt a hand tentatively rest atop his curly hair, so lightly at first, before Dennis could feel his palm rest firmly against his scalp, fingers in his curls. Mac stroked his head for a moment, gently, before brushing the curls from his forehead.

“Do you want a hug?” Mac asked after a couple of minutes. Dennis’ face was still buried in the pillow, and didn’t respond with a yes or a no.

“I don’t want you seeing me like this,” Dennis said hoarsely, taking a jarring breath in. “It’s fucking mortifying bro I... I can’t see you see me... I...”

Mac ran his hand through Dennis’ hair as he spoke, giving him the space to finish his point.

“Den, I’ve known you since high school,” Mac said. “You’re my... you’re my closest friend. Ever. And you mean so much to me and it, it fucking breaks my heart that you don’t feel you can even look me in the eye right now, bro. You know?”

“How am I supposed to look you in the fucking eye after living in the suburbs with you?” Dennis raised his voice, but he wasn’t angry. He was just so God damn emotional, he couldn’t regulate the way he was speaking. “I was fucking awful to you, Mac!”

“Dennis-“

“No, no shut up,” Dennis gripped the sheets of the hospital bed, trying to take steady breaths. “I said I hated you. And I avoided you. And I yelled, and I screamed, and I ignored, and...”

Mac’s hand stopped caressing Dennis’ hair for a moment, before trailing his fingers down to the bottom of his hair line where the hair was shorter and coarser. 

“And I’m...” Dennis trailed off, his voice now almost silent. “And I’m sorry. I... don’t, uh, hate you. And I never will.”

“Do you think I’m angry about all that?”

“You’d be an idiot if you weren’t.”

“Well, I’m an idiot then,” Mac said stubbornly. “I was upset, sure. Last thing I want is for you to hate me, and I felt like after that, I’d lost you. But, it’s cool. You know?”

“It’s not cool at all, Mac. Don’t fucking condescend me right now.”

“Okay, so it’s not cool, whatever. It hurt me,” Mac replied. “But I forgive you.”

Dennis swallowed, and bit his lip softly, processing those words that had come from Mac’s lips.

“Do you want that hug, then?” Mac asked, retrieving his hand from Dennis’ hair gently. Dennis, again, didn’t respond immediately. But after a moment, he nodded his head, awkwardly, embarrassed.

Reluctantly, Dennis sat up, wincing as he put pressure on his arm. He couldn’t look at Mac, fully aware that his face was makeup-less, blotchy and tear-stained. Dennis was terrified, if he was honest, so after he’d sat up, he didn’t hug Mac straight away. Maybe thirty seconds passed, silence between the two men, when Dennis looked up ever so slightly, trying to look as emotionless as possible. But upon seeing Mac’s forgiving face, frown furrowing his forehead, yet features soft and caring, Dennis couldn’t help but allow himself a small smile.

Mac just nodded, and smiled back. And without another second passing, Dennis collapsed into Mac, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding him tight, never, ever wanting to let go again. Mac wrapped his arms around Dennis, and he’d been right. His arms were muscular but soft, and his stubble was scratchy, and his palms were warm against his back and... it made Dennis feel not okay, not happy, not any of that, but it made him feel safe. 

Safe to cry, safe to scream, safe to breakdown. 

Mac began to speak, without letting go of Dennis.

“What happened, dude?” He asked. “Did you go to town on your arm or something like that?”

“Something like that,” Dennis said quietly. “It’s whatever.”

“For the love of God, Den, if... if you ever wanna do that again, can you please just fucking call me?”

Dennis frowned.

“I wouldn’t have wanted you to stop me,” he replied honestly. “I didn’t do this because I felt low, or depressed, or any of that bullshit. I was bored of feeling empty, and it was just an experiment to see if I could feel something.”

“Then why this bad?” 

“Because... I was desperate,” Dennis said, and as he was talking to Mac, safely in his arms, he realised that the tears had stopped, and although he still felt awful, he was starting to regulate a little. “Whatever. It’s no big deal.”

“Shut your mouth,” Mac snapped, but not angrily enough to pull back from him. In fact, he hugged Dennis tighter. “You could have at least called me to help afterwards, instead of Queen Bitch.”

“That would’ve been hard,” Dennis said, to which he expected Mac to respond with ‘why?’. He didn’t.

“Okay,” Mac said understandingly. “Well, whether you want to talk to me about brain shit, or empty shit, or just normal shit, I’m on the other end of the phone.”

Dennis nodded.

Mac smelled like Drakkar Noir, like he always did. It comforted Dennis, so nervously, experimentally, he nestled his face from Mac’s shoulder into the side of his neck. 

Mac exhaled a sigh, but it wasn’t frustrated. Dennis couldn’t place what exactly it was, but he didn’t feel like he had to move from that position.

“I’ll stay with you tonight,” Mac said, pulling back after a few minutes of silence. “Don’t particularly wanna sleep with Old Black Man anyway.”

Dennis chuckled quietly, nodding.

“Cool. Do what you want,” he responded casually, shrugging, but deep down, he was so relieved.

He was almost grateful for Dee, in that moment. She realised that he’d needed Mac that night, and she did something about it. How everybody was starting to know Dennis better than himself? He didn’t know. But that night, he wasn’t complaining.

Mac punched Dennis’ shoulder.

“Dynamic duo, right?” He smirked, to which Dennis nodded.

“Yeah, bro. Always.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nsfw 🖤

“He’s ruined everything.”

Mac had left the next morning. He and Dennis had been up all night, talking, sitting in silence, catching up. The psychiatrist had come to see Dennis at not long past 3:00am. He didn’t seem that interested, and that didn’t bother Dennis. Questions like ‘are you suicidal?’ and ‘what drove you to do it?’, etc. etc. The conversation lasted fifteen minutes, tops, and as Dennis was presenting as okay, and actively trying to convince this doctor that he was okay, Dennis was cleared to leave the next morning after his stitches were cleaned and redressed and they’d discussed payment for his stay.

Frank had come along in the morning, and told Mac to get lost. That’s why Mac had left early, although Dennis was almost grateful for it - as much as he’d kind of missed that time with Mac, after that long, it was becoming exhausting, and towards the end of Mac’s visit, Dennis was beginning to find him almost irritating. He couldn’t stop analysing everything the man said - did he care that Dennis was in hospital? Either he did, or he was just being positive to distract Dennis. Did he love Dennis back? Either he did, or Dennis was just reacting to his friendly nature differently after his revelation about the depths of his feelings. 

Feelings. That was a tricky one.

They were starting to calm down a bit now, and as every second passed, he felt less and less. By the time Frank had had a brief chat with Dennis and paid for his stay, it was 9:30am and he had almost reverted back to being a total fucking robot.

He almost missed it. Feeling emotions, that is. Even though they were overwhelming and made him feel awful, he preferred that to total emptiness. It made him feel out of control, it made him feel unpredictable, and by Dennis’ usual standards, this would be an awful thing. But something about it was exciting - it thrilled him. Being helped by Dee, having nurses and doctors dote over him, the fact that his emotions could change at any moment, the fact that he could laugh, and cry, and adore, and yearn, so much harder and so much greater than usual. It was wonderful, and it made Dennis feel like a teenager again.

Those feelings were confusing as all fuck, however. Even though he’d felt so tender and warm with Mac the night before, he was starting to question it all. Fuck Mac, for making him the focus of Dennis’ mind when there were much more pressing matters at hand. Fuck Mac, for leaving Dennis in the dark about where he stood in their relationship. Fuck Mac, for never having bothered to confront or comfort or figure out Dennis before. It was almost enough to make Dennis want to avoid self-harming in the future, if this is what he was going to be preoccupied with. Sure, Dennis wanted to feel. But feeling these things for your male roommate, your blood brother? Those were absolutely not things he wanted to feel. And he wasn’t in denial at this point - he loved Mac with every ounce of his heart. He just... didn’t want to.

Dee had gone home when Mac had arrived last night, probably to get some well deserved shut-eye. But she was there, that morning, to pick him up from the hospital, as Dennis didn’t have his car to drive, nor his wallet to get a taxi. 

Dennis was sat on the edge of his bed, dressed in his clothes from the day before that the hospital had kindly washed the blood out of whilst he was donning a hospital gown. He was poking at the bandages that had just been redressed, feeling the physical pain, sure, but nothing else. How irritating.

When the doctor (a different one from the night before) had changed his bandages, Dennis saw the stitched up wounds and felt satisfied. They were ugly, sure, and they’d probably leave quite nasty scars, that would always make Dennis uncomfortable due to his vanity alone. And sure, they were wide and embarrassingly severe - none of those reasons were why he felt satisfied. No, he was satisfied because seeing them, no matter how awful they were, reminded him that he’d finally found a solution. And after being hospitalised, he knew he needed to be careful in the future, more rational, less impulsive. But God, he had no intention of this being a one time thing.

So, Dennis was in the car with Dee, and suddenly, he was thinking about Mac again, which is when he interrupted Dee’s nonsense spiel about how acting classes aren’t the same now Artemis has found a gig. 

“He’s ruined everything,” Dennis said, consciously interrupting Dee.

“Hey, asshole, I was talking,” she snapped, stopping at a red light. She huffed a sigh, and used this opportunity to take her eyes off the road to look at Dennis, expecting his facial expression to be troubled, to be hurt, to be confused. It wasn’t, it was totally blank, uncaring. She frowned. “Who is?”

“Oh, Mac,” Dennis said obviously.

Dee snorted a laugh.

“And how is he ruining everything?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Dennis shrugged, scratching his jaw. He imagined how soft Mac’s lips would feel there, how he might drag his teeth gently at Dennis’ cleanly shaved skin. He imagined how Mac might plant kisses along the jawline, up to his ear, where he’d whisper sweet nothings - no. Dennis flicked his head. What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Then why’d you bring it up?” Dee raised an eyebrow, the signal turning green. She continued driving, and Dennis turned on the radio.

‘... that was a beautiful song, wasn’t it? And next up on our hour of love songs is ‘Do You Mind’ by The XX.’

Dennis had never heard of this song, but as Dee had stopped talking and Dennis didn’t know what to say, he listened casually.

‘Tell me I need to know,  
Where do you wanna go,  
Cuz if ya don't,  
I'll take it slow,  
Make you lose control’

Dennis ran his tongue over his teeth as the lyrics began to resonate through the car. He sniffed in pride, looking out of the car window, trying desperately to keep his mind blank, to keep it innocent, to keep it focused on the important things.

‘Baby would you like,  
To spend the night,  
The whole night,  
And maybe if you play it right,  
You can be all mine’

Mac. Dennis sucked his teeth in annoyance, trying to distract himself by counting the cars they passed. But the song progressed, and he could feel himself start to daydream again.

They were in Dennis’ room, because where else? And they were kissing, gently, and it was good. It was so good - Dennis imagined that Mac’s lips were soft, and that he liked to hold Dennis’ face in his palm. Maybe Mac would play with Dennis’ hair, like he did in the hospital. Maybe he’d be gentle, twirling his index finger through his curls. But maybe, they’d kiss differently. Maybe it was desperate, and the fingers in Dennis’ hair was gripping the locks tightly, squeezing, pulling. And maybe, Mac would bite his bottom lip, maybe Mac would nibble Dennis’ ear so he could hear his elevated breaths loudly, intensely. Maybe, Mac would rest his hand on Dennis’ waist and confidently slip his hand beneath his t-shirt. Maybe...

Dennis closed his eyes and his nose twitched, before reopening his eyes and tried counting cars again. 1, 2... that’s a bus, does that count? Fuck it, 3, 4...

‘Do you mind if I take you home tonight,  
Stay another day,  
If that's okay,  
Tell me baby,  
Would you mind if I take you home with me,  
Where no one can see,  
So don't be shy’

Dennis closed his eyes. Fuck the cars. 

Maybe, Mac would grip the bare skin of Dennis’ waist firmly, as if he wasn’t scared, to make Dennis feel safe. Maybe, his hands would move up to his chest, and maybe, he’d start by rubbing his upper shoulder and pecs, before brushing his nipples slightly. 

Dennis bit the inside of his lip and swallowed.

Maybe, Mac would suddenly pull apart and sit up, to take his top off. And his body would be soft, a little curved at the hips, but his stomach would be gently toned, and his collarbones would protrude a healthy, sexy amount. Maybe, Mac would throw the shirt to the ground and then, without hesitation, clamber onto Dennis’ lap and pull his shirt off as well. Maybe, Dennis’ head would get caught in the clothing, and they’d both start laughing. Mac would help him out, and they’d both find it hysterical, but then maybe, Mac’s face would fall into a tender, gentle expression, and kiss him deeply, and meaningfully, and passionately. Maybe, Mac would run his hands down Dennis’ chest, stomach, abdomen, and then cautiously start playing with the waistband of his jeans. Maybe, Mac would-

“Dennis? Are you listening to me?” Dee snapped. Dennis’ eyes opened immediately, and he looked at his twin sister, who was turning down the road where Paddy’s was situated. 

“Yeah,” Dennis said absently, bitter to have been taken out of that daydream. That was, until he realised just what he’d been thinking. God, that was a bit risky, and totally inappropriate - after being discharged from hospital and whilst in the car with his sister? Not to mention he was trying to avoid these ideas at the moment. Surely they could wait until Dennis was in a better place. Couldn’t they?

“So?”

“So what?”

“You weren’t listening to me then!” Dee scoffed, shaking her head in irritation. “I said, do you want to come to work today, or shall I drop you home?”

Dennis blinked, giving the question a brief consideration.

“Drop me home,” he ordered, just as Dee was nearing her usual parking space. She continued driving, passing Paddy’s Pub. Dennis looked out of the window - Charlie and Mac were stood together chatting as Mac was unlocking the doors. God damn Mac. “I’ll... sort myself out, and then I’ll come to work tomorrow.”

“Sure, whatever,” Dee brushed it off, and so she continued the drive back to her flat. The song had finished, and Dennis’ mouth was almost watering. How embarrassing.

It didn’t take long to get to Dee’s from Paddy’s. She pulled the car up outside the block of flats, and didn’t turn the engine off, but she did begin to speak.

“I cleaned the bathroom,” she said casually. “And I got rid of the razors. Don’t bother looking for them, they’re gone. And for the love of God, don’t carve yourself up again whilst we’re all at work.”

“Oh, you’re so good at comforting people, Dee,” Dennis rolled his eyes, unbuckling his seatbelt. “So sensitive.”

“Whatever,” she held her hand on the steering wheel, and no more words were shared as Dennis climbed out of the car. He closed the door behind him, but Dee didn’t drive for a moment. Instead, her expression softened, watching Dennis enter the building, his bandaged arm just about hidden by the long sleeves of his button up shirt. She didn’t know how to act, if she were honest, but at this point, she’d come to the assumption that Dennis would want her to treat him like normal, with insults and sass. She just hoped that this approach was appropriate. After about a minute, she gathered herself, and drove off to the bar.

Dennis closed the flat door behind him and exhaled, raising his eyebrows in disbelief at his own brain and the thought processes it forced him to consider. He kicked his shoes off, and as he walked into the flat, he passed the mirror on Dee’s hallway wall. He looked... absolutely revolting. No makeup, puffy eyes, greasy hair. Not to mention he fucking reeked. It wasn’t like him to let go of his own personal hygiene.

Shower, he thought to himself. He looked away from the mirror and reached both of his hands up to ruffle his hair, when he felt his arm twinge. He winced, remembering he had bandages that he couldn’t really get wet.

Unsure of what exactly to do, he stood gormless for a moment, considering. Yes, he thought, walking into the kitchen. Plastic wrap.

It felt ridiculous, wrapping his arm up in what was usually used to protect food, but Dennis needed that fucking shower. Sure, he could probably wash fairly well in the sink. But he needed the comfort of scalding hot water hammering down on his body, the steam clearing his nose after all the pathetic crying. 

He went to the bathroom and began to undress, throwing his clothes unceremoniously onto the floor. He noted that the bathroom was spotless, no evidence of the night before present at all. It didn’t bother him, and hardly preoccupied his mind at all.

He pulled his socks off, chucking them with the rest of the clothes that were in a pile in the corner, til he was naked. He glanced into the mirror, looking himself up and down. His fingers brushed his chest, soft, short hairs laying flat against his pale skin. He frowned a little as he looked at his body - he didn’t hate himself, by any means. But he felt disconnected from it, as if it weren’t his own. He knew his hands were moving, touching his chest, his stomach, but it felt almost lucid.

He looked at the floor, before back in the mirror, and he noticed his muscles were starting to become less defined, as he’d been too tired to work out recently, not that he’d ever done it frequently anyway, not for a while. He looked at his dick, and frowned even deeper. Why? He didn’t exactly know. If, by some miracle, Mac were to ever love Dennis back, would he be good enough for him? It’s not like Mac had never seen Dennis naked before. I mean, for Christ’s sake, the men used to jack off together. But that was... different. Somehow. It’s not like that was in a ‘romantic’ way, and Mac was probably 100% focused on himself, not Dennis. How would he react, if things were different, more intimate between them?

Dennis realised his train of thought and rolled his eyes in frustration. God, he was starting to sound like a horny teenager. For fucks sake, he was almost fourty. These thoughts, these fantasies, these insecurities? They were supposed to have passed by now. 

Maybe they were all bubbling to the surface now, after all this time, because he repressed this shit for so long. He’d never fantasised about the women in his life this intimately, not even when he was in college, surrounded by hot girls. Now, however, he’d finally admitted to himself that he was hopelessly in love with Mac, his brain was a cocktail of hormones, especially after the endorphins that came about after hurting himself the night before. 

“For fucks sake,” Dennis muttered, tearing his eyes away from the mirror and turning to turn the shower on, twisting the knob to the hottest setting he could handle. Mac needed to get the fuck out of his head, or he was going to drive himself mad, yearning for something he could never have.

So the shower heated up, and Dennis stepped in, flinching a little as he edged into the hot water, slowly letting his body become accustomed to the heat. The pressure of the water against his scalp felt good. He pushed the wet curls out of his forehead.

Just like Mac had done the night before.

Mac’s hands in Dennis hair. Mac’s hands all over him. Everywhere. 

“Stop,” Dennis actually said aloud, gritting his teeth. Stubbornly, he grabbed the shampoo that was sat on the corner of the bath, and squeezed some onto his hand. His teeth were almost vibrating with how hard he was clenching his jaw. He began to rub the shampoo into his hair.

What would it feel like to have Mac standing there in the shower with him? To be drenched in the water with Dennis, to be complaining that Dennis showers with the water too hot. Dennis would turn the heat down a little, and Mac would get closer. Maybe Mac would massage the shampoo into Dennis’ hair for him. His fingers, circling his scalp, gently. Without kisses, without anything besides eye contact. Mac would move the shower head so it was directly above Dennis, and he would rinse out the suds gently, wiping water away from Dennis’ closed eyes if it started to drip down his forehead. He’d finish and move the shower head back, and he’d ruffle Dennis’ sodden hair so water flicked everywhere. And they’d laugh.

And Dennis would reach for the shampoo, but Mac would hold his wrist. Dennis would look up, and Mac would have a cheeky facial expression, a raised eyebrow and a little smirk. 

Dennis swallowed a lump in his throat and rinsed the suds out of his hair. His imagination was getting beyond a joke at this point. Kissing Mac, sure. But showering with Mac? This was beyond intimacy, this was beyond a fantasy. This was domesticity and Dennis fucking craved it.

He craved Mac. Every part of Mac. The fights, the showers, the drinking together, the sex, the cuddles, the tears. Everything.

He unclenched his jaw, taking a slightly wobbly breath. He bit his lip, and closed his eyes, letting the water submerge him completely.

Mac would slip from Dennis’ wrist into his hand, and squeezing gently, using his other hand to slip around Dennis’ waist and pull him towards him, and pull him close. And Dennis would breathe a chuckle, because they were both naked, and the water was hot, and as Mac pulls Dennis close, they touch. Everything, Dennis likes to think, would touch. And it would feel good, right?

They’d kiss, obviously. Dennis liked to imagine that if and when they get into a relationship, neither of them would ever stop kissing. The gang would hate them for it. But the gang didn’t matter whilst they were like the way they were in the shower, in Dennis’ mind.

Mac would kiss Dennis differently from their usual, every day kisses. Mac would kiss Dennis dirty, slow, and Dennis would know exactly what was on his mind.

As Dennis stood in the shower, and this scenario played out in his head, he could feel one of his hands clasp his neck, and he scraped his nails against his smooth skin, gently, not so much that it hurt.

How would Mac go about it? Would he tease Dennis, or would he be totally forthright? Would he prefer handjobs or blowjobs? Top or bottom? 

Dennis’ hand trailed down his front, down his abdomen slowly. He closed his eyes, and frowned, lips parted so that water from the shower dropped into his mouth.

Dennis loved the idea of Mac doing the same to him as he was currently doing to himself. Making his way down his body, all whilst kissing him, his mouth, his neck, his jaw, his chest. Thinking about it, Dennis’ guessed that Mac would want to make Dennis want it even more. Would he brush his fingers against his pelvis, gently, slowly edging closer, before pulling his hand away all together?

Hopefully. That shit would turn Dennis on instantly. 

Eventually, Mac would tentatively take Dennis’ dick in his hand. Tentatively, Dennis thought, because even though Mac would play confident, when it came down to it, he’d be as nervous as Dennis. First time, second time, any time. Dennis liked to think that even if they’d been together for years and years, the nervous anticipation would still be there.

Dennis’ skin was starting to prune, but he didn’t care. His hand was resting on his pelvis, tapping at the skin. 

Mac would waste no time, at this point. He start slow, gentle, caressing Dennis. And Dennis would try not to moan, he would bite his lip and blush red at the guttural noises coming from the back of his throat. He wouldn’t be able to help it. And this would give Mac a surge, and then, he’d be on his knees, and he’d still have his hand around Dennis’ dick, but now, he was kissing his thighs, and he was hovering slightly, his breath making Dennis swallow, twitching. And the hesitation would just make it all the more satisfying when Mac finally-

Dennis had finally reached down all the way, but as soon as he came into contact with his dick, he felt... guilty. And angry. And overwhelmed and irritated and pissed off at himself, first and foremost, but mostly at Mac, for living such a beautiful existence, he put these thoughts into Dennis’ head. 

He sighed harshly, and retreated his hand immediately. He looked down, and his hand was shaking, and he was actually embarrassingly hard, which just made him even more infuriated. Fuck Mac. Fuck him, and his beautiful eyes and gentle lips and soft body and messy hair. 

Dennis hated him.

He finished showering, quickly. He spent no more than two minutes washing the rest of his body with raspberry shower gel, rinsed off and immediately climbed out, feeling totally out of sorts. He caught himself in the mirror out of the corner of his eye and recoiled, hurriedly grabbing a towel. He wrapped it round his waist, and grabbed another smaller towel for his hair. He rubbed it ferociously, so much so that it almost hurt.

He stopped rubbing his hair almost instantly, desperately. His phone that was laying on the edge of the sink had vibrated, and of course, Dennis’ heart had skipped a beat. Was it Mac?

Don’t be stupid, Dennis thought to himself. The chances of it being Mac were pretty slim; there was the rest of the gang, it could be an email, it could be a notification from Facebook. Any one of those things.

He dried his fingertips on the towel he’d used for his hair before discarding it to the floor, picking up his phone from the sink. He didn’t get his hopes up, because he knew if he did, he’d be disappointed. He unlocked the phone, blinking. It was Mac.

‘U at Dee’s? I’m coming round in 10 mins, pls be there x’

Dennis frowned and looked at when it was sent - seven minutes ago. He did nothing for a short moment, stood with a towel around his waist, gormless, in the middle of the bathroom, trying to get his head around why Mac was coming to see him and what his intentions were.

After a moment of contemplation, he leapt into action, hurrying out of the bathroom to grab a t-shirt and some baggy boxers out of his bag of clothes (Dee refused to give any of her drawers up for either him or Mac). He dried off and changed as quickly as he could, and after throwing his dirty clothes from the bathroom in the wash, he slipped a thin, blue dressing gown on and went and sat in the lounge to wait for Mac. 

As he was sat on the sofa, he peeled the plastic wrap from his forearm to reveal the mostly dry bandages. A little of the shower water had seeped in through the ends, but hardly enough to affect the bandages or the healing process. He sighed, scrunching the plastic wrap into a ball, before leaning back into the sofa. He was going to see Mac, and after his shower daydream? You’d think he’d be excited. And sure, he was for a moment, when the text came through. But now, he was void, and almost uncomfortable. He didn’t want to see Mac, because his feelings for Mac were making it harder and harder to be around him without freaking out. 

The door opened, and Mac walked in, alone. Dennis sniffed, standing up from the sofa, running his hand through his curly hair, that was still wet.

Dennis took a few steps forward, a little tentatively, but Mac had taken hurried strides across the room, the door swinging closed behind him. 

“Hey, Mac,” Dennis offered a smile, but Mac didn’t return it, walking closer and closer to Dennis, face set in a peculiar expression, not making eye contact with Dennis at all. Dennis frowned, confused, and as Mac got further and further towards Dennis, he froze, startled. He was closer, and closer, until his arms were wrapped around Dennis tightly. 

Dennis almost flinched, out of fear, out of shock. But Mac didn’t pull back, and Dennis relaxed a little at first, but then a lot, and buried his face into the nape of Mac’s neck.

Mac’s hands were on Dennis’ back, but they weren’t warm, like he’d imagined. In fact, the grip wasn’t that firm - he was shaking, as if he were nervous. Why was he nervous? Dennis chose to ignore it, and took a deep breath in, only to frown. He didn’t smell like Drakkar Noir, he smelled like vanilla and wood, which was nice, Dennis could admit, but it wasn’t what this was supposed to be like.

“I had to come and see you,” Mac mumbled.

“You only saw me this morning,” Dennis said quietly, and as he spoke, he noticed that Mac’s facial hair wasn’t stubbly enough to scratch his face - it was soft, and a bit longer than usual. Not a beard, by any means, but different, nonetheless. His stomach turned.

“That was in hospital,” Mac replied, and Dennis could feel his breath against his shoulder, hot and comforting, even through the fabric of his dressing gown. “And then you didn’t come to work and I... I just wanted to...”

“Wanted to what?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Mac said meekly.

Dennis paused.

“What about?”

Mac pulled back a little, retreating his hands from around Dennis. Dennis felt... cold. He just wanted to be that close to Mac forever, not for a measly thirty seconds.

“I’ve been going over it and over it in my head since last night, and... I couldn’t work out whether this would help,” Mac was staring at the floor, wringing his hands together. “And you know, it probably won’t, because you’re not... and, well, I don’t like that I am, and it’s just so stupid. You know what? This was a bad idea-“

“What is it, Mac?”

“I...” Mac’s voice was strained, and he squeezed his eyes closed, suddenly quite obviously a little fearful. “I really like you.”

“I really like you too,” Dennis said, heart pounding. He tried to keep his voice level.

“No, no,” Mac winced, shaking his, head, reopening his eyes, but still unable to make eye contact. “That’s not what I meant, I meant that I’m...”

Dennis was quiet, and let Mac speak.

“I like you, as in, I am... attracted... to you. Like, in the- in the, in the fuckin’ you know, in the love way.”

“I know what you meant,” Dennis could feel his stomach tensing in fear, in relief, in something, but God knows what this emotion actually was. He could say for certain that he didn’t feel void and empty in that moment - no. He felt full. He was overflowing. “You love me?”

Mac was bright red, lips pursed, jaw shaking.

“U-uh, I... I, I mean,” he stuttered, exhaling a shaky breath. “I mean, yeah, dude. I know that’s... a lot. But I have since we were teenagers, you know? And I don’t wanna half-ass this. So yeah,” Mac was starting to gain a bit of confidence as he spoke, realising that Dennis wasn’t interrupting him, or getting angry, or defensive. Finally, he looked up, making very brief eye contact with Dennis. His eyebrows immediately relaxed from the frown they were in, and he smiled, nervously, before his face fell into something more sincere. He looked away, over Dennis’ shoulder to the window behind him. “I guess I do. Love you, that is. I, uh... yeah. I love you. And stuff.”

Dennis had to bite his lip to stop himself from smiling. It was a lot, maybe a little too much, but he didn’t fucking care. It was totally overwhelming, but this is what he’d wanted for so long. This is what he’d been dreaming off, this is why he’d been so unsure, so irritated with himself to the extent he had been.

And finally, he was feeling something a little bit more normal.

“I...” Dennis started, before his mouth froze up. All he wanted to say was ‘I love you too’, because it was true, he meant it, he meant every word of it. He couldn’t, so he settled for something less. “I feel the same way, I think. About you! Not about myself, I’m not that awful.”

“You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m fucking serious, asshole!” Dennis frowned, a little insulted. He gesticulated with his hands wildly, all of his emotions suddenly pouring out, right before Mac. “Why wouldn’t I be serious? I’ve been, God, I’ve been fucking praying you’d tell me that, because God knows I’m too much of a pussy to say it first. And- and yeah! Yeah, I- did you really think I wasn’t serious? Jesus, Mac, I mean-“

Mac had cut him off. With a kiss, of course. Dennis’ eyes opened wide, and he froze, even though this is EXACTLY what he wanted.

Mac pulled back.

“Sorry, too much?” He asked, not upset or offended, just mindful. “It’s cool, dude. This is a lot.”

Dennis swallowed a lump in his throat and parted his lips, the situation finally sinking in. Mac looked at him for a moment, and just as he was about to take a step back, Dennis grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him with everything he had.

Mac made a surprised noise at the back of his throat, but didn’t hesitate, not even a little. He didn’t know what to do with his hands for a moment, so they kind of hovered in mid air, before one rested on Dennis’ neck, and one on the back of his head.

It felt good, but something was off. Mac was kissing him tentatively, carefully. He was supposed to be clumsy and confident, but he just seemed... scared. He smelled different, his hands were shaking, his stubble had grown out slightly, and he was too good at kissing. Sure, it was good, but it was wrong. It was all wrong. 

But Dennis didn’t stop kissing him. If anything, it was relieving and validating to know that Mac felt this way. Dennis could stop repressing it, he could stop being a little bitch about it. And actually? Even if this wasn’t what Dennis had imagined, it was still making him feel all kinda ways. 

It wasn’t too intense, it wasn’t too overwhelming. Not even when Mac, very cautiously, slicked his tongue over Dennis’ lip. Finally, Dennis thought, and exhaled gently through his nose as they continued to kiss, a little deeper, a little more personally. And, just like in Dennis’ imagination, they made their way to sit down. Not on Dennis’ bed in their old flat, of course, that was never going to happen, but on Dee’s sofa. They didn’t dare break apart as they moved over, stumbling a little here and there. It made Mac laugh a little, which made Dennis irrevocably happy. They sat, and Mac brushed Dennis’ bandaged arm. 

He flinched, pulling his hand away.

“You okay?” Dennis mumbled with a frown. Mac nodded, and leaned back in to kiss Dennis once more. 

“Mmhm,” Mac hummed, but Dennis wasn’t. He wasn’t okay at all, so he broke apart.

“What’s wrong? You flinched.”

“Nothing’s wrong dude, I just...” Mac shrugged, shaking his head. He held his hand up to cup Dennis’ cheek, but Dennis turned his face away.

“My arm, right?”

Mac flushed, embarrassed, ashamed, and looked into his lap, retrieving his hand from Dennis’ face. He started twiddling with his hands, face twisted, upset. Dennis could feel his stomach boiling. This wasn’t right.

“No. I- Well I mean, yeah,” Mac stuttered. Dennis said nothing, just grit his teeth. “Dude, I just can’t bare to think of... of how it must have felt for you. You know? I can’t fucking bare it. Because, Christ, you know, I care about you, Den. A lot! And the thought of you doing that makes me sad. And I don’t like to think about it.”

Dennis rubbed his forehead. 

“I’m scared you’ll do it again,” Mac frowned, and his voice softened. It should’ve comforted Dennis, but it made him recoil - simply because, he was going to do it again. He fully intended on doing it again. 

Dennis sniffed, trying to maintain a little dignity, trying to pretend that he wasn’t feeling all kinds of fucked up inside. 

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said quietly, frowning deeply. Mac said nothing for a moment, just opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. Silence, before Dennis leapt up from the sofa. His heart was racing, his mind was racing, everything was racing. He was pacing backwards and forwards, chewing his lip.

“What do you mean-“

“This was supposed to be different!” Dennis yelled, and Mac recoiled into the sofa, a little shocked. “You... you smell different! And- and your stubble is- you were supposed to be clums- and less shy... I imagined this!” He was gesticulating wildly with his hands, shaking his head ferociously at himself. “And you were supposed to, you were supposed to kiss my- and this. This is Dee’s flat! It’s all wrong. Dude it’s... it’s all fucking WRONG.”

“Den, sit down,” Mac suggested calmly, biting his lip, not from fear, but from worry. 

“Why couldn’t you do it right?” Dennis exclaimed, massaging his forehead with both of his hands, which he then realised, were shaking. “You’re ruining everything, Mac! You could’ve just- you could’ve just not felt the same way about me, and I could’ve just got over it with time, and this wouldn’t have happened, and you wouldn’t have fucked it up-“

“Me?! Me fucked it up?” Mac snapped, with a raised eyebrow and angry eyes. “Well Dennis, I’m sorry I don’t fit your fucking standards.”

Dennis said nothing, but continued pacing, almost anxiously at this point.

“I’m out,” Mac stood up, totally incredulous, trying his darnedest to rationalise all of this in his head. This was almost definitely Dennis’ mental health speaking, of course Mac wasn’t ruining anything, of course this wasn’t Mac’s fault. But it didn’t stop him from seething. For Dennis to tell him that Mac was, essentially, not good enough for him, hit deep, and it hurt like a fucking bitch. All Mac had ever wanted was to be good enough for Dennis, and after Mac had gone all that way to prove himself to Dennis whilst living in the suburbs, only to be met with the reaction the unstable man had had? It hurt to know that finally, after both of them had had the courage to act on their feelings, it still wasn’t good enough for Dennis.

In that moment, he couldn’t understand Dennis’ thought process, and actually? He didn’t want to.

So, he walked past Dennis, hesitating a little bit as he passed him. They made eye contact, and although Dennis would never admit this, Mac could see tears forming in his eyes. 

That should’ve been enough to make Mac stay, but after wearing his heart on his sleeve the way he’d just done, only to be told that he was ruining everything? That crossed a line, and Mac wasn’t about to deal with it in that very moment. So he looked away, and walked out of Dee’s apartment without looking back.


	7. Chapter 7

Most of the week had passed. The weekend had come and gone, and it was now Wednesday. Dennis hadn’t been seen by any of the gang since the argument, if you could even call it that, with Mac. It’d left poor Mac in a bit of a state, leaving his voicemail after voicemail, text after text - he’d heard nothing in response. The rest of the gang weren’t all that concerned, as Dennis had been posting on Facebook regularly. Besides, Dennis had done this before. Taking off for a few days, that is, to get away from the everyday trials of hanging out with the gang. It was different now, somehow. Considering Dennis’ state of mind, his hospital admission, his thing with Mac? It seemed all too calculated, almost a bit pointed.

The bar was quiet, as it usually was. Business wasn’t exactly booming that month, although it was only 9:00pm, not quite peak business time yet. Mac was sat at the bar, alone, sipping a beer despondently as Charlie, Frank, and Dee were huddled around the television, watching the news. Mac couldn’t care less about whatever story they were all focused on - he had his phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone go on, and on, as he tried to get hold of Dennis. It went to voicemail.

“I know you’re pissed at me man, but you’ve gotta stop ignoring me,” Mac pleaded quietly, not particularly wanting to draw attention to himself from the gang. “Look, get back to me, yeah? We can figure this out. We’ll be okay... okay?” 

He hung up.

“What’s on the news?” Mac asked, mildly uninterested but desperate for something to distract him from Dennis’ absence. 

“Some suicidal guy on a bridge,” Charlie shrugged, without diverting his attention from the screen. “Most interesting news story of the week.”

“What bridge?”

“Schuylkill Expressway,” Dee said, taking a swig from the beer bottle she was holding in her hand. 

Mac rushed over. There was a man hanging onto the exterior of the railings of the bridge - he could obviously fall at any moment. This guy meant business. He tried to get a good look at the guys face, but the cameras were filming from the river bank and didn’t have much clarity. Although there was nothing to confirm that this was who Mac thought it was, and although they couldn’t see the man clearly in the slightest, Mac immediately panicked.

He took a shaky breath, and immediately walked away from the television, muttering under his breath.

“Dude,” Charlie stood up from the pool table and walked over to Mac, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder. “What?”

“Do you- Charlie, do you think that’s Dennis?” Mac looked at Charlie, face full of pure anxiety, fear.

“I think it’s unlikely,” Charlie frowned. “Why would Dennis want to kill himself?”

Mac closed his eyes. He wasn’t about to indulge the gang in the details of what happened between Dennis and himself. He realised, however, his panic would be totally unjustified if he didn’t tell them why he was so worried. So he worked around it.

“Well, he’s been away for what, four, five days now?” Mac exhaled, chewing the inside of his lip. “He hasn’t been answering anybody’s texts or calls... maybe he’s been planning it? Dude, I really think that’s Dennis, we need to get down there, we need to go now-“

“Mac!” Charlie snapped, clicking a finger before his eyes. “Chill the fuck out, bro.”

“How can I chill out when Dennis is about to-“ Mac was cut off by the sound of his phone vibrating on the surface of the bar. Mac moved faster than he’d ever moved before, and before even looking at the caller ID, he answered the phone. Charlie stood beside him, looking at him expectantly. “Hello?” Mac said immediately into the phone.

“Hey,” said a voice that could only be Dennis. 

“Den!” Mac exclaimed, looking visibly relieved. “Dude are you okay?”

“Yeah?” Dennis said, and Mac could almost hear his raised eyebrow. “I’m fine, man.”

“You’re not on the Schuylkill Bridge?” Mac asked hurriedly, to which Dennis spluttered a laugh.

“No, why the Hell would I be there?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mac shook his head, nodding to Charlie, who offered him a little smile, before returning to the television, giving Mac some privacy. Mac walked over to the other end of the bar, away from the gang, and sat down at a stool. “You’ve been ignoring me, dude, I was worried.”

“You don’t need to be worried,” Dennis said obviously. “I just took off for a couple of days. Needed the space.”

“From me?”

“From everyone,” Dennis clarified. “And honestly? Yeah, from you.” 

Mac’s heart dropped.

“Den, I’m so sorry-“

“No, no, shut up. Shut your mouth,” Dennis snapped. “You’ve got nothing to fucking apologise for, so just don’t, okay? I took off because I needed to give myself some space to sort my brain out a bit. About, you know... uh, you. Us.”

“What do you mean?” Mac frowned. “Don’t you... hold on, I’m gonna go outside. I’m in the bar at the moment.”

“Okay, whatever.”

Mac stood up and walked hurriedly out of the bar, closing the door behind him. It was another unbearably hot day, and the temperature had only let up slightly as the afternoon developed into evening.

“Don’t you, you know. Feel the way you said you did?”

“No, idiot, of course I feel the way I said I did,” Dennis said firmly. “But I didn’t deal with it very well that day, did I? So I needed to like, get the fuck out, before I ruined us even more.”

“Okay,” Mac sighed softly, running his hands through his hair, that was slicked down, but as it was nearing the end of the evening and it was such a humid day, the gel was starting to loosen and his fingers slipped through easily. “Well... where did you go?”

“Some cheap motel,” Dennis admitted. “It’s been kinda gross, but there’s a bar down the road that does piss cheap beer.”

“Perks, right?”

“Oh, totally,” Dennis chuckled, before silence fell between them for a moment. “Can I admit something to you, dude?”

“Well yeah, sure.”

“I don’t think... I don’t think I’m very well at the moment,” he said quietly. Earnestly, if nothing else. “I feel bad, when I’m feeling anything at all. And when I’m not feeling anything at all, I’m being stupid. And I kind of want it to stop.”

“Stupid how?”

“How the fuck do you think, Mac?”

Mac swallowed a lump in his throat. He understood.

“I just... I’m phoning you because I have a therapy session tomorrow, and I wanted to see you this evening before I go to that.”

“Why?”

“Why am I going to therapy or why do I want to see you?”

“The latter, obviously.”

“Because, asshole,” one could practically hear the scowl on Dennis’ face. “I like you. And I guess, I don’t know, I guess I owe it to you to be honest with you about what happened the other morning. Because if I can’t talk to you about it, God fucking knows I won’t be able to talk to a therapist.”

“Okay,” Mac nodded, although he knew Dennis couldn’t see him. “Wanna meet somewhere then?”

“Fairmount Park, at our usual bench. You know, the one we always used to smoke weed on when we were in our twenties? 9:30pm.”

“That’s in like, half an hour.”

“Problem?”

“No, obviously not,” Mac shot back. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Dennis said. “I’ll see you there.”

“Of course dude! I’ll see you- oh he’s hung up,” Mac added to himself as he looked down at his phone. He breathed a chuckle, in relief partly, that Dennis was okay. Okay, as in, alive. Obviously, he wasn’t okay at all. That was the other reason Mac was laughing - he was terrified for Dennis, and Mac didn’t know how else to portray that. He entered the bar, pocketing his phone.

“I’m off,” he announced, to which the gang shrugged. 

“Whatever,” Dee said, not tearing her eyes away from the TV.

So, Mac walked swiftly out of the bar and began to walk to Fairmount Park - he’d usually get a cab, but he had half an hour to kill; he might as well walk.

It didn’t take the usual twenty minutes to walk there - Mac had arrived at the edge of the park in fifteen. There was, however, a stride to his step. An urgency, if you will. It was Dennis, after all, and Mac was worried.

He seamlessly remembered his way through the park and found himself approaching the bench, sky only just beginning to darken from sunset into night. The sky was almost purple, pink, a little bit orange, and the sun was no longer visible in the sky.

Dennis was already sat on the bench. Trust him to be there early. When was he not?

Mac made his way over, and just as he was about to clear his throat and alert Dennis of his presence, Dennis noticed him, and the man stood up so quickly from the bench, he almost lost balance. 

It was a little embarrassing to admit, but Mac’s pace quickened so drastically upon seeing Dennis acknowledge him, he was practically jogging, and just as he was about to stop a couple of feet away from Dennis, his footsteps coming to a holt, Dennis lurched forward and wrapped his arms around Mac, desperately. Mac’s eyes widened in surprise, but most certainly didn’t complain, gently encompassing Dennis with his arms. 

Mac noticed that Dennis seemed, feeble, weak. Not himself. His grip around Mac was not that firm, but he could feel Dennis squeezing him slightly. Mac also had to note that Dennis was shaking, just a little. Trembling. And sure, if it was the dead of winter and it was cold outside, that might be understandable and wouldn’t concern Mac in the slightest. But it wasn’t. It was mid July, and even though it was almost 9:30pm, Mac was almost too hot wearing just a tank top.

Dennis held onto Mac for longer than Mac was anticipating.

“Hi, Dennis,” Mac eventually said, and he felt Dennis’ feeble grip tighten ever so slightly. He didn’t know whether to smile or cry, so he did neither. He simply closed his eyes, and let Dennis hug it out, til he was ready to speak.

“Hi,” he said quietly, not particularly emotionally, but with enough earnest to reassure Mac that he wasn’t gonna get angry with him that day. Dennis took a shaky breath, as if he were anxious. “You... you smell nice.”

“Drakkar Noir, baby,” Mac chuckled. “I know you like it, you fucking softie.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Dennis said, and Mac could imagine Dennis pouting, grumpily. “I don’t even like it that much, it just reminds me, of y- the flat. You know, it always smelled like it-“

“It reminds you of me, huh?” Mac smirked, but not cockily. He was touched by the fact Dennis thought so softly of him, something Mac had convinced himself wasn’t possible, especially after living in the suburbs. 

“I never said that,” Dennis almost chuckled, but didn’t deny it. It was then, he released Mac from the hug, and Mac got a proper look at him. And God, he really didn’t look good.

His eye bags were a purpleish-red, as if he’d been crying, or not sleeping, or both. He also looked a little gaunt, cheekbones more protruding than usual - Mac frowned. So many people found prominent cheekbones attractive, but on Dennis? It was just sad. The man clearly hadn’t been eating well. He was wearing long sleeves because of course he was, but if Mac looked down at the very bottom of the cuffs, he could see the tips of scratches. It made his heart plummet, but what was he to expect?

Now wasn’t the time to be upset by all of this. Dennis needed somebody, right?

“How’ve you been, man?” Mac asked lightly, offering Dennis a smile. He sat on the bench, and Dennis followed, not sitting unbearably close together, but close enough that if either of them widened the stance of their legs, their knees would touch. 

“Not great, Mac,” Dennis sighed, kind of casually, obviously trying to brush off how awful he was clearly feeling. “Not great.”

“Well, yeah, I can... see that,” Mac sniffed, nodding. “Wanna talk about it?”

“About what, my week?” Dennis raised an eyebrow, shaking his head immediately. “Not really, man. But uh... I feel like I should, you know, talk about last week.”

“About when you freaked out on me?”

“Eloquently put, thanks Mac,” Dennis snapped, but looked in the other direction to hide an amused smile. “But yeah, about that.”

“I’m all ears, bro,” Mac slouched into the bench a little, although the hard wood wasn’t exactly comfortable. “Take your time.”

“It’s a bit embarrassing to admit,” Dennis was obviously trying to keep his voice confident, but as he began to discuss this issue, his voice immediately dropped, a wobble threatening to disrupt his words. “Uh, I’ve had a big fat gay fuckin’ crush on you for a long time, dude. Even though you’re an asshole. But, after liking somebody for as long as I’ve liked you, you start to imagine, you know... what will your first kiss be like with them? With, uh, you. Specifically.”

“We’ll discuss the fact that you basically just came out as gay in a minute,” Mac half-smiled. “Go on.”

Dennis looked at Mac through narrowed eyes, biting back an embarrassed smile.

“I’d like, imagined it. A lot, obviously,” Dennis couldn’t make eye contact with Mac. He actually looked nervous, more anxious than before. “And the way I’d imagined it like, was different to how it actually happened. No criticism to you, dude,” he clarified, his leg beginning to bounce erratically. “It was good, and I liked it- loved it, believe it or not.”

Mac noticed Dennis’ leg and placed his hand firmly on his knee, not because the bouncing was annoying, but to let Dennis know that he noticed, and he cared.

“It’s just, I don’t know why but, my thought processes at the moment are a bit fucked, so I freaked out, because it didn’t happen exactly the way I imagined it,” Dennis looked down at Mac’s hand, and exhaled through his nose, heavily. Carefully, cautiously, he hooked his pinky finger around Mac’s, and continued speaking. “It was stupid things. Like I imagined it happened at our old apartment, and that you weren’t nervous, which is stupid because of course you were nervous, so was I, for fucks sake. And, I imagined the way you smelled, and I imagined that your stubble was shorter, and that you... like, weren’t freaked out by the whole self harm thing. Which is also stupid, because I was basically just totally fucking romanticising it. And realistically, I don’t expect any of that from you, you know, man? I really don’t, I’m just happy it’s you, but there’s something wrong with me at the moment, and it was all too much, and-“

“Dennis,” Mac interrupted, and Dennis looked up finally, eyes wide. “Den.”

Dennis heard his nickname come from Mac’s lips, his voice dripping with honey as it exited his mouth, and Dennis fucking melted. He bit his lip, and nodded, looking away again. He couldn’t have brought himself to look any longer - Mac was too stupidly, annoyingly, totally fucking beautiful, and it hurt to look at. Why? Dennis didn’t know. Maybe it was overwhelming. 

“Yeah?” He managed to get out.

“It’s fine, you know,” Mac said softly, squeezing his pinky finger around Dennis’. To both of the men’s surprise, Dennis slipped his hand into Mac’s completely. “I get it, you’re wonky at the moment. You don’t need to justify it.”

“I do, actually,” Dennis said. “I just wanna say that like...” he trailed off, and Mac waited for him to finish, but Dennis never completed the sentence.

“What, dude?”

“It’s stupid. And cheesy and gross and cliché.”

“Oh I’m SO here for that,” Mac smirked, squeezing Dennis’ hand gently.

Dennis sniffed, frowning.

“Well it’s just, you know,” Dennis was finding it excruciatingly hard to communicate this, but he knew that he needed to be honest. “I’d love to properly be with you, one day. Fuckin’... boyfriends or something disgusting. I don’t care, it’s whatever, up to you. But my point, is that I wanna work towards that. Because if I am gonna be brutally honest with myself, I won’t be able to treat you well if we do that like, now. And I’ve got therapy tomorrow, and hopefully it’ll help, and I’ll go again. It can be a thing, and I can, like, get the fuck over myself.”

Mac’s heart fluttered and he felt himself flush, but he swallowed the feeling and tried to remain composed, normal, for Dennis.

“I mean, yeah dude. I’d like that one day.”

Dennis nodded. 

“But that doesn’t mean that in the meantime I don’t wanna be, like, nice with you. It just won’t be all the time,” he shrugged. “And that’s shit, and I’m sorry, because I realise that I’m a bit unpredictable. So... yeah. I guess, that’s uh, what I wanted to say. So that you know that like, that’s what I’m gonna be working on in therapy first.”

“You should really focus on more things more important than me in therapy, bro,” Mac said quietly.

“Like what?”

“Like, the rest of your mental health. Your self harm, maybe?”

“I guess,” Dennis shrugged again.

They were silent for a moment.

“Well, I’ll take my cues from you,” Mac ran his thumb over the back of Dennis’ hand. “Let me know if you wanna be gay, and shit.”

“Is the gay thing gonna be like... a thing?” Dennis breathes a chuckle.

“Oh yeah, obviously,” Mac nudged Dennis’ elbow, playfully. “I’m gay too. It’s cool.”

“Well yeah, I know you are.”

“What, because I’m into you?”

“No, asshole. You’re the gayest dude I know,” Dennis looked up, his eyes a little less heavy. 

“I’m not!” Mac protested gently, sitting up straight. “I’ve banged tons of chicks, plus I’m manly as fuck.”

“You’re a twunk at best,” Dennis shook his head, and Mac swayed his shoulder, mock-offended. 

“You can’t tease me for being gay, anyway. You’re also gay, apparently,” Mac laughed. “How long have you known?”

“That I’m gay?” Dennis spluttered. “I never considered it til recently. Forced it the fuck out of my head. I probably actually thought about the label the other day - Dee asked if I was gay.”

“She did?!” 

“Hah, yeah,” Dennis chuckled, and realised that he’d scooted over closer to Mac over the course of the conversation. 

“Why’d she ask that?”

“Oh,” Dennis licked his lip, awkwardly. “I think she figured out that I’m into you, or something.”

“Oh,” Mac raised an eyebrow. “She’s observant.”

“I guess.”

Dennis looked around the park, that was growing darker with every second that passed. The few stars they could see in Philly were starting to come out, glinting in the clear sky. He rolled his head back, and looked at the sky through the leaves of the tree towering over them.

He only looked back down when he felt Mac rest his head against his shoulder. He froze, for a moment, unsure of how to react briefly, before realising that in that moment, he didn’t need to pretend to be tough, and manly, and sarcastic and apathetic. So he rested his head atop Mac’s. Mac squeezed Dennis’ hand.

They stayed like this for a moment.

“Mac, dude?” Dennis asked, after a short period of peaceful silence. Mac lifted his head and looked at Dennis. 

“Uh huh?”

“You said to let you know if I wanted to be, what was it, ‘gay and shit’?” He chuckled, out of nervousness if anything. “Well, I’m uh, letting you know. I guess.”

“That’s cute.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Dennis rolled his eyes, swallowing a lump in his throat. 

“You sure you’re like, in the right place for being ‘gay and shit’? You’ve had a bad week.”

“I’m very aware of how bad my week has been, thanks,” Dennis sighed, averting his eyes for a moment. “I’m gonna grab these moments when they come around, and it happens to have come around. So, I’m grabbing it. Shut up.”

“Okay,” Mac nodded, and Dennis looked back at him. “That’s definitely gay,” he added, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth, knowing he was pushing it with how cheeky he was being. Dennis spluttered a laugh, looking at Mac with a mock-irritated expression, that was obviously an attempt to mask his soft, earnest look.

“I hate you, bro.”

“No, you don’t,” Mac shook his head with a wide smile. He rested his hand on Dennis’ bicep, stroking his shoulder with his thumb, gently.

“No... I don’t,” Dennis let himself be totally honest, no barriers or walls. “I don’t hate you at all.”

Mac knew what that meant. Gently, slowly, he reached his other hand up to brush Dennis’ messy curls from his forehead. His smile fell, but he wasn’t sad. He was just so overcome with affection for Dennis, smiling seemed false, forced. There was no need to smile. It was unnecessary. So he didn’t.

They looked at each other for a moment, but the innocent eye contact didn’t last long, ten seconds, tops. After that moment, Dennis cupped Mac’s face almost desperately, and kissed him. 

He kissed him and he meant every ounce of it. And sure, he was nervous, but this time around, their feelings and shit were out in the open. They both knew what they were contending with. 

Mac was obviously more comfortable this time in comparison to last time. His kissing wasn’t as precise and careful - it was a little more clumsy, messy, heated, but nothing overtly over the top. No, it was pretty calm if anything else. Maybe it was their surroundings, maybe it was the previous conversation, maybe it was the week they’d had to process what had happened. But this was so, so fucking soft, for lack of a better word. It was soft, and it was special.

Dennis loved the way Mac’s fingers felt in his hair, which is where they ended up. Dennis’ hands rested on Mac’s waist, and he loved how he could feel the muscle, but he could also feel it padded and softened by a healthy layer of fat. Dennis wondered how cute it would look to see Mac sitting cross legged, shirtless, leaning forward. Would he have rolls that made his stomach ripple slightly? Dennis hoped so.

“You gonna come back to Dee’s tonight, or are you staying at your motel?” Mac breathed against Dennis’ lips, so close that Dennis could feel Mac’s mouth moving as he spoke. 

“Back to the motel,” Dennis replied quietly. “You can come and watch a movie, if you want.”

“We could rent Predator.”

“Just like the old days,” Dennis smiled weakly, reconnecting their lips. He loved the little sighs Mac made whilst they were kissing, he loved the fact that Mac didn’t see Dennis as something disgusting, or stupid, or unstable. Mac didn’t think Dennis was a bad person, and he could feel that truth as Mac kissed Dennis with everything he had.

They kissed for a little longer, until Mac pulled away, ruffling Dennis’ hair playfully.

“Let’s go and watch Predator.”


	8. Chapter 8

They were sat besides each other in the crappy motel Dennis had been staying in. The two had managed to rent Predator, and whilst they were out and about, bought a case of beers, and Dennis drove them back to the motel. Now, they were in pyjamas (Mac had borrowed some joggers from Dennis), sat side by side on the end of the bed, sitting as close to the tiny television as possible. Not that it mattered if they couldn’t understand what was going on in the film - they’d watched it so many times, Mac could practically recite it. No, this wasn’t about watching Predator. This was about them spending some normal time together, like they always had.

It was sweltering hot in the motel room. The ceiling fan was broken, and opening the window was useless - it would simply draft in more hot air. It was so hot, Mac was sat shirtless, wearing nothing but the borrowed joggers. Dennis, however, was wearing a short sleeved t-shirt, with an thermal long sleeved top beneath it, alongside pyjama bottoms. He was obviously struggling with the heat, wiping sweat from his forehead every few minutes. 

Dennis took a swig of his beer, hoping that would at least cool him down. But even the beer had become lukewarm, as it had been in Dennis’ hand and the hot room for long enough to lose it’s icy, refreshing appeal. Dennis placed the can down on the stained carpet, and sighed.

“You’re sweating like a pig, dude,” Mac commented, and Dennis looked across at him with narrow eyes.

“Wow, thanks Mac,” he raised an insulted eyebrow. Mac shook his head, sighing an amused sigh.

“No, man, it wasn’t an insult,” he clarified. Dennis turned his attention back to the movie, but he was obviously listening. “I mean, you’re wearing a thermal top? It’s the height of fuckin’ summer, bro, you’ll pass out.”

Dennis’ nose twitched.

“I don’t have any other long sleeved tops to sleep in,” he said quietly. Not embarrassed, or insecure, just quietly, as if he were too interested in the movie to raise his voice above the level he was at. 

“Then just wear your t-shirt, dipshit,” Mac chuckled obviously, trying to deflect from the seriousness of the actual conversation. “Hell, go topless like me. It’s hot as shit.”

Dennis rolled his eyes and sighed sharply, picking up the beer from the floor he thought he was done with. He took a much needed swig, swallowing three huge gulps in one go, until the can was empty. He crushed it, and chucked it across the room, where it bounced off the peeling wallpaper.

“No.”

“Why not?” Mac challenged, at which point, Dennis looked back to him, an uncomfortable, slightly angry gleam to his eye.

“Because I’ll make you uncomfortable.”

“No, you won’t.”

Dennis closed his eyes in irritation.

“Look dude, if you can’t even cope with bandages,” Dennis began, finally verbalising the issue they’d been dancing around. “You’re not gonna be able to cope with actually seeing them.”

“I will cope, shut up,” Mac scowled, swatting Dennis’ shoulder. “Plus, this isn’t about whether I’m comfortable or not, it’s about you not passing the fuck out.”

Dennis sucked his teeth and looked into his lap. Mac was being annoying. It was nice, in a way, that he was acting like his normal, asshole self, even about a sensitive issue like this. 

“What if you pass out?”

“I’m not a pussy, Dennis, Jesus Christ,” Mac sat back a little, no longer interested in the film in the slightest - not that he was interested in it before. “Just a flesh wound, right?”

Dennis half-smiled. He knew that was a Monty Python reference, a stupid British show they used to watch together a few years back, when things between them weren’t as complicated.

Mac noticed Dennis’ lips curve, briefly, and knew he’d won the battle.

Dennis hesitated, shifting away from Mac a little, before pulling the short sleeved t-shirt over his head, leaving his thermal top. Mac kept his eyes glued to the screen, although after sitting back, he could barely understand what was going on. He wanted to give Dennis a little less attention, in that moment. He knew that actually, averted eyes is probably what Dennis needed.

Eventually, Dennis threw the thermal top to the floor, and although he was uncomfortable exposing his healing and more fresh wounds like this, it was an immediate relief. He glanced at the t-shirt, considering putting it back on, but as his torso finally got some air, he decided against it, if a little hesitantly.

Dennis shifted a little closer to Mac again, and sat back respectively, the back of his hand brushing Mac’s.

Mac looked away from the screen and to Dennis. Of course, his stomach plummeted, because naturally, his eyes were immediately drawn to his arm. Luckily, the fresher cuts weren’t deep. But it still hurt to look at - from his elbow to the bottom of the palm of his hands, there was barely an inch that wasn’t covered, whether it were scratches or worse. It was obviously a daily thing, and actually, looking at his arm, Mac suspected it was multiple times a day.

But he said he’d cope. So that’s what he was gonna do.

“Shirtless too, huh?” He said casually, tearing his eyes away from his arm, to his stomach, his chest, his waist. He was a bit too pale, and a bit too skinny, but Mac didn’t have particular reason to be concerned about that. It wasn’t any more unhealthy than usual - the weight loss was mostly showing on Dennis’ face. So, as Mac shamelessly checked Dennis out, he let himself smirk a little.

“Yeah,” Dennis hummed, nodding. “Like you said. It’s hot as shit.”

You’re hot as shit, is all Mac wanted to say. It wasn’t the time for that, however. It was totally inappropriate, so he held back, simply looking forward to the next time Dennis would be shirtless before him, and saying it then.

They sat in silence for a moment, both of them pretending to watch the film. That is, until, Dennis broke the silence.

“I’ll be honest man,” he began. “I’m not interested in watching this at all.”

“No, me neither,” Mac agreed. “The TV is way too small, and the sound is shit.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Dennis said, sitting up straight and leaning forward to turn off the television. And somehow, as soon as it was off, there seemed to be... less tension between them. Not that there was much anyway, but now there was a bit of quiet, it felt less forced.

The screen turned to black and Dennis sat back, before throwing himself on his back, flopping unceremoniously onto the mattress, head hitting the pillow.

“That’s a bit more comfy,” Dennis commented. “Not that this mattress is comfy, but it’s better than sitting hunched over a tiny screen. I was getting back ache, you know.”

Mac looked back at Dennis, and pushed himself into the middle of the mattress, crossing his legs, sitting directly beside Dennis.

Dennis softened, watching as Mac’s fairly toned stomach softened, curling into rolls. Just like he’d thought would happen.

Dennis turned onto his side to face Mac.

“Go on then,” Dennis prompted. “Any interesting stories at work this week?”

“Not really, we’ve been bored as shit,” Mac shrugged. “Charlie’s been doing something with elephant drawings? Some sort of scheme him and Frank had, but I couldn’t follow it. It involved mice? Thinking about it, they were probably gonna see if elephant drawings would scare the mice, but they’re so God damn idiotic, they must’ve gotten the two mixed up or something.”

“All normal, then,” Dennis chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “You done anything particularly interesting?”

“Nah,” Mac shook his head, electing to not tell him about his panic about the man on the bridge. “Me and Charlie have been a bit closer this week, like we used to be.”

“Oh, sweet,” Dennis nodded. “How come? Or just because?”

“Hah,” Mac chuckled. “Yeah, he basically figured out that I’ve got the fattest gay crush on you. He was pretty cool about it, we’ve been spending more time together since.”

“And Dee? How’s she?”

“Not been around much,” Mac said. “She’s been on the phone a lot, calling some dude ‘theatre jerk’ and ‘acting turkey’... must be some man from her acting class she’s trying to trick into sex.”

“She hasn’t been to acting class for years,” Dennis frowned, raising an eyebrow. “Is she still in touch with anybody from her classes?”

“I mean, Artemis?” Mac tried. “But she’s a chick. And even if Dee was a closeted lesbian, which isn’t the case, Artemis and Frank still have that weird food fetish shit going on.”

“Hm,” Dennis pursed his lips in thought, before brushing it off. “Ah, whatever. I don’t care that much.”

Mac rolled his eyes.

“Yeah you do, asshole,” Mac laughed. “It’s nice that you care more now, too. So, shut up.”

“It’s not that I care more now,” Dennis considered. “I’m just too tired now to pretend that I don’t.”

Mac nodded, looking at Dennis, who was staring at the brown sheets of the duvet, tracing patterns onto them absently. Mac softened, watching as Dennis’ eyes followed his own fingers. His facial features were drawn, but he was still as beautiful as ever.

“Den,” Mac said. Dennis looked up, expectantly. Mac said nothing, but threw himself unceremoniously onto the mattress, laying down besides Dennis. 

“What?”

Mac turned on his side, directly facing Dennis. There was a good amount of space between them, but Mac could still feel a flutter of Dennis’ breath reach him, soft against Mac’s bare skin. He smiled. 

“Nothing,” he chuckled quietly, to which Dennis shook his head, mock-irritated (he couldn’t find it in himself to be genuinely irritated), before playfully punching Mac’s shoulder.

Mac punched his shoulder back, and looked at Dennis for a brief moment, who raised a challenging eyebrow, punching Mac’s shoulder again, a little firmer but obviously not so hard it hurt. Mac laughed, shocked at how playful Dennis was feeling. He wasn’t expecting him to have been in a good mood this evening - it was refreshing.

“You gonna make this a competition?” Mac smirked, propping himself up on his elbow slightly, punching Dennis again. 

Dennis retaliated with a pleased expression on his face, although he was trying to mask it with serious competitiveness. 

“Dude, I will kick your ass,” Mac warned, thumping Dennis’ arm, but then when Dennis went to retaliate, Mac karate chopped his hand away, raising an eyebrow. “You are dealing with a black belt in karate-“

Dennis punched Mac’s arm, taking advantage of how distracted he was by talking about karate. Mac glowered at him, and punched his arm again, but Dennis pulled his arm back just in time.

“Shut the fuck up about karate, dude,” he smirked, as Mac tried to punch his arm again, failing once more as Dennis deflected, managing to grab Mac’s wrist in his hand.

Mac looked at Dennis, mockingly pissed off. He looked at Dennis’ fingers around his wrist, and noted how weak the grip was. Mac could easily have pulled his wrist away from Dennis’ feeble hand, but as he was about to, he noticed how weirdly intimate the situation was, and actually? He didn’t want Dennis to let go of him.

He never wanted Dennis to let go of him.

Mac fake-struggled, much to Dennis’ glee, but Mac freed his other hand and punched his other bicep. Dennis gasped, offended, and released Mac’s wrist so he could avenge himself.

He didn’t manage to, and then, Mac went in to get Dennis’ bicep once more, and Dennis pulled back with so much vigour and determination to win this game, he found himself teetering on the edge of the mattress. For a second, he grappled with the sheets, before he fell unceremoniously off the bed. A very short moment passed, when Mac heard Dennis burst into laughter.

He’d missed that. Dennis’ laugh.

Mac shook his head and laughed as well, crawling to the side of the bed to look down at Dennis who was on the floor, crammed into the little space on the floor between the wall and the bed. 

“Jesus Christ, dude,” Mac spluttered, not even helping Dennis for a moment, just watching him laugh at the ridiculous situation, in what could only be a hilariously uncomfortable position. “You were never gonna beat me, I warned you.”

“Who says you won?”

“Me!” Mac raised his eyebrows. “I got the last punch, and you fell off the bed. The rules say that that means... I win.”

“Rules?” Dennis said, in an aggravatingly Dennis-like voice. “There are no rules, Mac, this is a game we made up! If you could even call it a game, it was more of a competition.”

“So, I won the competition,” Mac narrowed his eyes, smirking. Dennis reached up to swat at his arm, but Mac pulled back, with a smirk.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Dennis said, with nothing but warmth in his voice. It made Mac soften, and smile genuinely for a small moment. “Now, help me up, for Christ’s sake.”

Mac rolled his eyes, and held his hand out to Dennis, which he clasped, trying to pull himself up with all his strength. Even with the leverage of Mac’s hand, he couldn’t muster up the strength. Mac noticed this, and pulled him up into a sitting position, before helping him clamber rather ungraciously onto the bed.

Dennis was now sat on the edge of the bed, a little too close to Mac, who’s hand was still in his. He felt his mouth go dry, so he licked his lips, and swallowed. 

Mac smiled at him, and took his hand from Dennis’ flopping back onto the middle of the bed, head hitting the pillow.

Mac was an idiot.

Dennis sucked his teeth and closed his eyes, irritated. He shuffled back to the middle of the bed and also lay down, slowly, on his side with the premise of looking at Mac. He didn’t.

“You changed the subject, bro,” Mac started. “Admit it, I totally won...”

Dennis tuned out to Mac’s spiel of cocky words, and finally looked up. He watched Mac’s lips move as he talked, he watched his brown eyes blink every few seconds, he watched his gesticulate with his hands enthusiastically.

That was Mac. He was enthusiasm, defined, and if it was worn on anybody else, Dennis wouldn’t give them the time of day. But with Mac, it was endearing. His lust for life, for his friends, even for fucking Project Badass? He put his soul into everything he did or said, and Dennis fucking loved it.

He loved it so much.

He loved him so much.

Mac was mid-sentence when Dennis kissed him, but he didn’t mind being interrupted. Not at all.

Dennis had grabbed Mac’s shoulder. He could feel the uneven skin - a couple of tiny dips in the skin from the acne he’d suffered with in high school that had long since healed, a few raised bits where a freckle was exceptionally pronounced, the fine, short hairs. Dennis knew Mac smelled like Drakkar Noir this time, but he thought to himself that even if he didn’t, he’d be into this anyway.

Mac’s heart was pounding, beating out of his fucking chest. He was wary, scared of getting this wrong. So, he kissed Dennis back for a moment, before pulling away hesitantly. 

Dennis exhaled, and closed his eyes, biting the inside of his lip.

“Dennis-“

“It’s cool, I get it,” Dennis shook his head, opening his eyes, but looking away. Anywhere but Mac. “I’m not the most attractive today, right? No makeup.”

“No, Den, it’s not that at all-“

“Mac, it’s fine,” Dennis snapped, rolling onto his back. 

“Would you listen to me?” Mac frowned, his voice sharp. Dennis raised an eyebrow, surprised at Mac’s tone of voice. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, or that you’re unattractive, so shut up, bro. I do wanna kiss you, and you’re very, very fucking attractive.”

“So...”

“So, I don’t want to upset you again by kissing you,” Mac said. “Like last week. I know that right now, I’m not how you imagined me in your daydream, whatever. I think maybe it’s a good idea to wait until you’re a bit better, you know? I don’t wanna be somebody you’re not... satisfied with.”

Dennis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m the one who kissed you, man,” he said. “I know that you’re not what my brain dreamt up, but today I... don’t give a shit. I said earlier, right? When a moment like this comes along, I’m gonna fucking grab it with both hands.”

Mac was silent, a sad expression, a confused expression, upon his face.

“We’ve wasted enough time,” Dennis’ voice was quiet now. “Don’t wanna waste anymore. You know?”

Mac nodded, looking Dennis up and down. He still wasn’t facing Mac, looking at the ceiling. Mac looked him up and down, noticing his fingers tapping anxiously against his thigh. He noticed his chest rise and fall with each breath, listening to Dennis exhale quietly through his nose.

“I should go home,” Mac said quietly. “It’s getting kinda late.”

Dennis frowned.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, forcing disinterest into his voice. Mac saw right through it - he’d known Dennis long enough to know that when he used that voice, he was actually pretty emotional.

“Unless you want me to stay for another hour?”

“Do what you want,” Dennis shrugged, sniffing indignantly.

Mac sat up, and crossed his arms, trying to make eye contact with Dennis who was adamantly looking away.

“What’s up with you?”

Dennis hesitated before speaking, still looking away, staring at a very fixed point on the ceiling.

“You’re just stupid,” Dennis said quietly, a little coldly. “I tried to make it clear that actually, I’d fucking love to kiss you. And then you go quiet for a minute, and then announce that you’re fucking leaving?”

“Den-“

“No, Mac, it’s fine. Go home, it’s getting late, after all.”

Mac closed his eyes, deeply frustrated. Dennis massaged his forehead with both of his hands, which were embarrassingly shaking a little. He tried his best to mask his trembling hands, applying as much pressure to his head to try and cease it.

“Well I’d have to leave soon anyway, the buses only run til a certain time and I didn’t drive here,” Mac explained, to which Dennis spluttered a laugh.

“Dipshit,” he shook his head. “I was hoping you’d stop with me, here, tonight. Thought I’d made that blatantly obvious.”

“Nothing’s obvious with you, dude,” Mac tried to say gently. “Well. I guess some things are obvious.”

“Like what?”

“I think it’s obvious that you’re unwell,” he began tentatively, to which Dennis exhaled, sharply. “I think it’s obvious that you care about people more than you let on.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t think it’s obvious that I’m desperately fucking in love with you?” Dennis asked in an offended, low, cold voice. His hands really were shaking now, and at this point there was no hiding it. 

Mac opened his mouth to reply, but the words got caught in his throat. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, gathering his thoughts for a moment, before piecing a sentence together.

“I don’t think it’s obvious,” Mac whispered, before clearing his throat. “But... I’m, uh. I’m glad you are. Obviously- obviously, I’m glad you are.”

Dennis didn’t know what to say in response. His trembling hands were still on his head, and at this point, his fingers were gripped to his scalp, stubby fingernails digging into him, not quite enough to it to break the skin but enough to hurt. His lip trembled, but there were no tears in his eyes.

Mac paused.

“For the record, I’m in love with you, too.”

“I know you are, asshole,” Dennis let out a shaky breath, finally letting his hands fall from his face. He saw Mac out of the corner of his eye, gazing at him sadly, and his stomach turned. He couldn’t work out if it was butterflies making him feel like that, or the desperate fear and anxiety that was possessing him. Either way, it wasn’t a comfortable feeling, and it made him want to scream in anguish. 

Mac reached out to brush the back of Dennis’ hand, which had fallen to rest upon his stomach. Dennis didn’t pull back, but he closed his eyes.

“Go home, Mac,” he whispered.

“You don’t want me to stay?”

“I... don’t know. I think it’d just be best for you to go,” Dennis licked his lips, wincing as Mac pulled his hand back. “I’ll be back at Dee’s tomorrow. I’ll see you then. Yeah?”

Mac didn’t say anything. Dennis felt the weight of the bed shift as he stood up, and wordlessly pulled on his vest top.

“Den,” Mac said, after a long moment. “We’re alright. Right?”

Dennis opened his eyes, looking at Mac directly. He looked worried, scared, anxious.

“Yeah,” said Dennis softly with a gentle nod of his head. 

A glimmer of a forced smile fluttered across Mac’s lips. He swallowed visibly, nodding for a moment, but didn’t stop nodding, not even when he walked out of the door and left Dennis, alone in the motel room.

Dennis scrunched up his face as tightly as he could, and held it for at least ten seconds, before relaxing the muscles.

He felt limp, he felt guilty, he felt void.

“Fuck.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw suicidal ideation, drug use, mentions of past r*pe

Dennis was sat in the waiting room. He was tired because he didn’t sleep, of course. He’d spent the night polishing off the case of beers he and Mac had barely touched, watched a copious amount of free porn on his phone, and vegetated. He was frustrated, if he was going to be honest, but he certainly wasn’t empty like he had been experiencing bouts of. Void of thoughts, sure. Drained, sure. But he was emotional.

He didn’t cry, he didn’t cut his arm, but he drank and he wanked and he had four showers between the time of Mac going home and checking out of the motel to go to his therapy appointment. So there he was, 10am sharp; Thursday the 14th of July, leg bouncing in what could only really be described as anxiety, although he was keeping a cool and calm persona otherwise.

A woman walked into the waiting room. She was much older than Dennis, perhaps in her late 50s, and she wore goofy glasses that made her eyes look like bugs. However, she wasn’t ugly. She had a kind, plump, wrinkled face, with an almost rosy glow adorning her deep brown skin tone. Her hair was sleek to an extent - it was flat and almost reflective, close to the scalp, before her hair elevated into a sort of messy bun, full of taught curls. She had a brightly coloured headscarf holding the bun in place, and she smiled widely, chapped lips a light pink - not lipstick, but gloss, perhaps.

She wasn’t what Dennis was expecting. Mostly because she was so eccentric and warm and friendly looking. This doctor did not look as beige and stupidly professional as he expected - she wore a bright orange vest top and a high-waisted skirt that billowed down to her ankles, patterned with art and illustrations of forest animals. She also wore a loose yellow cardigan. The unexpected but welcoming demeanour of this lady almost instantly comforted Dennis, although he wasn’t going to go as far as to say that he liked her, or trusted her. Fuck, he thought, she hadn’t even said anything yet. She’d just walked in.

“Dennis Reynolds?” She looked at him immediately, as there were no other male patients in the already sparse waiting room. He nodded, holding up a hand in greeting, and pushed himself out of the oddly comfortable seat.

“Yeah, hi,” he stood up straight and offered a polite smile, holding out his hand. He immediately regretted this decision - it was trembling slightly, as it tended to so so recently.

“I’m Dr Lander,” she greeted, shaking his hand with a firm but friendly grip. “But I don’t want you calling me some fancy informal crap. I’m Debs to you, okay?”

Dennis shrugged.

“Sure thing,” he nodded, acting as usual as possible to try and mask the fact that he was feeling incredibly tense. As a comfort, he pulled his sleeves down over the palms of his hands - the navy, striped top was always a top he wore when feeling a little vulnerable.

“You follow me, Dennis,” She ushered, leading him down a short corridor to her office. Her name was on a placard upon the wood - ‘Deborah Bessie Lander, M.D’. Debs opened the door and held it open for Dennis, waiting for him to enter. So he did.

Her office was neither big nor small, but it was unique and completely compelling. The walls were covered in framed photos, some black and white, some in colour, of various people playing instruments in what appeared to be jazz clubs. Men with saxophones, women at pianos, the lot. There were one or two grainy, but in colour at least, of a woman who looked much like Debs, singing.

“Is that you?” Dennis pointed to the particular photo he was looking at. Debs chuckled.

“Yes, that’s me! God damn, I love that photo. 1986, Nick’s Tavern in New York City. I sang there once, and one time only - that place is pretty damn exclusive! Best achievement of my life, it was,” she explained enthusiastically as she made her way over to the chairs that were situated in a fairly central part of the room. They were red leather seats, with an excessive amount of blankets and throws tossed over them. Dennis sat down, as did Debs, and she handed him a cushion. Dennis frowned, but said nothing, just taking it from her with a peculiar expression. He placed it on his lap.

“You’re a musician?”

“I am indeed, right in the soul,” she beamed. “I don’t sing anymore though, I stick to my beloved piano.”

“Jazz?”

“What else?” She chuckled, reaching for a leather bound notebook and patterned fountain pen that were sat on the table. “You mind if I write some stuff down whilst we chat today, Dennis?”

“Can I say no?”

“You can say no, but I don’t advise that you do,” she said softly, sitting back in her chair. “If I don’t write down notes about our session, it won’t get logged accurately into our system and therefore, your medical records, you understand? And of course, it’s up to you, but I’d highly advise you allow me to take notes, in case you ever need medical help and the doctors need to see details of your mental health difficulties.”

“Who says I’m mentally ill?” Dennis snapped.

“Your previous medical records, Dennis,” Debs said carefully, cautiously. “Why don’t you tell me what you know about your medical past?”

“Well...” Dennis frowned. “I’ve been in hospital a few times in the past? Cuts, broken bones, shit like that. I had surgery when I was a kid - tonsillitis. And I was in hospital, uh, last week, maybe? I’m not great at keeping track of recent events and time.”

“D’you mind indulging me in what your hospital admission was for last week?”

“Oh, right,” Dennis laughed, scratching the back of his head. “I fucked my arm, didn’t I?”

“What, break it?”

“No, no, uh, I cut it.”

Debs nodded, but didn’t write anything down. Her pen was poised, but she gave Dennis the attentive listening ear he needed. He half expected her to ask more about it, but she didn’t. She stayed silent, until Dennis felt more secure to talk about it more openly.

“I didn’t mean for it to be as bad as it was, you know? I didn’t wanna like, top myself. So it was fine, see? I got discharged the next morning with a few stitches. No problem.”

“Don’t you see being hospitalised after cutting your wrists a problem?” Debs questioned, writing down a couple of key words. Nothing long, her pen was only scribbling for a second. 

“Well, not really. I didn’t regret hurting myself, as such. It was just annoying that I wasn’t careful enough,” he felt uncertain, saying these words. In fact, he didn’t even know if it was annoying that he wasn’t careful enough - the hospital trip, in retrospect, was a thrill. Dennis frowned.

“There’s no right or wrong answers here, peach,” Debs reassured. “You be as honest and as frank and as nasty as you like in my sessions - just so long as you listen to what I have to say in response.”

Dennis hummed, feeling his hands tighten around the edges of the pillow he’d been given. It was fluffy and aggravatingly soft and plush - his fingers sunk into it comfortably.

“I can’t think of much more significant medical history...” Dennis said, before remembering. “Besides crack cocaine. I did have a bit of a problem with that back in the day, but those days are no longer.”

“So no crack recently?”

Dennis hesitated.

“Well there was a bit of a relapse in the last six months, but it wasn’t a big deal.”

Debs nodded, realising that Dennis cutting the conversation short was a sign that this was not something he wanted to be discussing yet. She moved swiftly on.

“Have you ever seen a psychiatrist before, Dennis?” She asked calmly, in the same, consistently warm voice.

“A couple of times I guess? When I was a kid my dad took me, because he thought I was a psychopath or something. Which was disproved, the doctor just told them I needed more intensive time to spend with them.”

“Did they?”

“Pfft, fuck no,” he laughed, amused at the idea of Frank and Barbara spending quality time with him, or Dee for that matter. “I saw one in college, because I kept punching walls and shit. One of the lecturers thought I had anger issues. I don’t even remember what came of that. Otherwise, not for my own issues. I came to this organisation once with another therapist, but she was my twin sisters therapist and the whole gang was there? And last year I saw a psychiatrist to get some medication for a friend of ours.”

Debs frowned.

“And what did you say to the doctor who gave you these meds?”

“Just told him about the situation,” Dennis shrugged. “Why are you asking?”

Debs raised a concerned eyebrow, and picked up a sparse folder from the floor by her chair. She pulled out one of the few pieces of paper, and scanned it over.

“You saw this psychiatrist, what, mid 2016?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, he prescribed that medication for you, Dennis,” She pushed her glasses up her nose and read closer. “A prescription of lamictal. Ring any bells for you?”

“No,” Dennis frowned defensively. “Why would he prescribe them for me?”

“Well, in that appointment you had with him, he also gave you a diagnosis,” again, she was speaking carefully but directly.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah, sweetie,” Debs nodded. “The psychiatrist diagnosed you with Borderline Personality Disorder, says here,” she explained. Dennis stiffened. “Says it here in your medical records.”

“The fuck is that?” He spat, shrinking subconsciously into his chair. The grip on the pillow was starting to make his fingers tremble with the pressure.

“I don’t think we should discuss what it is, or what it means for you,” she said honestly.

“Uh. Why not?” He asked incredulously.

“Because, Den,” she began, watching Dennis flinch violently upon hearing that nickname. “I think it was incredibly reckless of a psychiatrist who’d never met you before, who knew you weren’t there for your own personal health, to diagnose you with quite a serious mental health condition after only seeing you for an hour, max. Sure, it may be the case that you have BPD, but we are nowhere near the point of diagnosis of anything, yet. I’ve met you once, y’understand? I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I’ve got this massive damn insight into the inner workings of your brain just because I’ve got the credentials on a shiny plaque on my door!”

Dennis was holding the cushion to his stomach now, and he was staring at a stain on the table before him.

“I can’t stop you from going home and researching this. But I am extremely hesitant to label you with something so permanent this early on. That won’t help you, peach.”

Dennis didn’t say anything for a moment.

“So you think I need to be diagnosed with something, personality borderline whatever or not?”

“No,” Debs said firmly. “I think before we even start to consider anything related to labels, diagnosis or not, we need to get to know each other and you, over time, need to discuss with me the issues you have. And maybe, some of the things you consider normal, may be symptoms of a mental health condition. Thats why I’m here.”

Dennis took a deep breath, exhaling it in a sigh.

“Why did you decide to see a therapist, Den?”

“Don’t call me that,” Dennis said coldly, quietly. 

“Sure thing, I apologise,” Debs wrote something brief down in her notebook. “Don’t you like that nickname?”

“Not from most, no.”

“Most?” Debs enquired. “Who are the exceptions?”

“Mac,” said Dennis. “Which also answers your question, about why I decided to see a therapist. He’s part of the reason, anyway.”

“Who’s Mac? Tell me about him,” Debs encouraged, running her fingers over a multitude of metal bangles decorating her arm. “Is he a family member?”

“No, no he’s not- we’re not related,” Dennis stumbled over his words, as he came to the realisation that he had no idea how to describe his and Mac’s relationship. “I’ve known him since high school, and we’ve been best friends for years. And years. He’s my roommate now. Uh...”

“Did he take the same classes as you?”

“Oh, no.” Dennis shook his head. “I was doing more interesting subjects than him. He was doing sports, mainly, which he liked to think he was good at. Obviously he did all the other classes you’ve got to do in high school, but he’s a bit of a dumbass, so we were never in the same classes.” Debs wrote something down. “My friend Charlie introduced us. Well, I say introduced us. Mac and Charlie have been best friends since they were little kids, you know? Charlie got me in touch with Mac because Charlie was a functioning drug addict, you know. Glue, ammonia, shit like that. But in our last year, Charlie was desperate for me to smoke weed with him, just once, before school was over. So that’s how I met Mac - he sold weed to all the kids at school, and him and Charlie were like the fucking tightest of friends. Charlie dragged me along and I met him under the bleachers, and he sold us 2g. He was wearing the stupidest fucking cartoon t-shirt and a ripped up denim jacket that was way too big for him.”

“You’ve got a very specific memory of how you met,” Debs said warmly. “Are you two close?”

“You could say that,” Dennis nodded with a nervous chuckle. “It’s complicated.”

“Indulge me,” she smiled, almost cheekily, a glint of genuine care and interest in her eye. It made Dennis feel very, very comfortable - he knew that if anybody was going to understand the complexity of his and Mac’s situation, and the way Dennis viewed Mac, it would be this woman.

“We’ve always been close. Since college, me, Mac and Charlie became a bit of a crew. The gang, we call it. But towards the end of college, me and Mac grew closer, started getting up to all sorts of shit we shouldn’t have been doing. Charlie didn’t go to college, nor did Mac. My twin sister and I did. But Mac loved the college scene. To begin with, he used to try and get Charlie to come along with him to see me and Dee. But he hated college, because he was scared people would think he was a loser. So Mac just came on his own, and Dee was always off doing her own thing, so Mac and I... spent a lot of time together.”

“Smoking?”

“Well yeah, we were college kids and Mac was a dealer. Of course we smoked,” Dennis said obviously. “But then we started hanging out without the premise of getting stoned, or going to parties. He’d just come round and hang out and we’d watch action movies and get wasted.”

“And Charlie?”

“Oh, we didn’t leave him out. If we met up, we’d phone Charlie nearly every time. And then, towards the end of my time at college, he started to join Mac in visiting me, and we started venturing out and getting drunk elsewhere, you know. Not just in my dusty room in the shared house. Parks, mostly. They were kind of fun times.”

“You sound like you love those two,” Debs smiled. She didn’t write anything down. “Tell me more about Mac today though, you mentioned him specifically.”

“Well, as much as I’m very fond of Charlie, I was closest with Mac,” Dennis softened a little bit, although he was a little anxious still. “I remember the way he looked in when I was at college. So different to now, you know? He was pretty fuckin’ skinny, although he thought he was totally ripped. He ate so much fucking food, too, God knows how he didn’t get fat. Worked it all off at the gym, ran around, constantly energetic? Maybe. He’s not skinny now. He was fat for a year, a while back. He’s a more normal weight now though. Not skinny, nah. More muscles and shit. Stomach rolls but healthy ones.”

Debs said nothing and listened with a small smile permanently on her lips - she could see how relaxed Dennis was becoming, talking about Mac without it being in relation to his mental health.

“His hair was different, too. A tiny bit longer, all fluffy and notoriously messy. I don’t think the idiot even own a hairbrush,” Dennis shook his head with a chuckle. “He shaved back then, too, until he was maybe 22? And he realised that having a bit of facial hair made him look more manly. Mad masculinity issues with that guy, I’m telling you.”

Dennis paused, realising how okay he was discussing Mac in such a fond way to a perfect stranger. It confused him. Not in an angry defensive way. Just confused him.

“He was always funny. Madly homophobic to cover up his sexuality issues, but it made for some pretty God damn entertaining conversations. And we used to like plot shit, to get what we wanted or to pass my class or to get back at somebody who tried us. It was just fun, and it always was fun. We rented a flat together, when I finished college. We lived there for ages - only moved out recently, because there was a fire. At the moment we live with my sister,” Dennis said, the experience of living in the suburbs coming into his head for a moment. He dashed it away. “It was interesting, learning to live with each other, mostly because when you’re in your early twenties and you’re out in the big wide world for the first time, it’s scary. And we didn’t take it seriously at all. Mac couldn’t cook, and he didn’t clean at the time, although he learned how to clean a bathroom and put rubbish into the God damn can after a year of it. And sure, we’d argue sometimes, but we’d shout it out and then watch a movie and get wasted. Charlie would come over all the time, too. We’d have pizza nights together. And then one night, we decided to buy a bar together, because why the fuck not, right? We put together our life savings, and opened up Paddy’s Pub. We all own it, my sister Dee works as a waitress and Frank is kind of in charge of money for schemes and ideas and shit.”

Debs listened, and had a million and one questions in her head. The main one being ‘who is Frank?’. She’d recognised, however, that asking about somebody else would send Dennis off on a tangent and she’d never get to the bottom of why Mac had become such an issue, at least not in that session.

“Why is Mac a part of the reason you’re here today?”

Dennis faltered, having forgotten that he was there to talk about his issues surrounding Mac.

“Well he’s done nothing wrong. He’s an asshole, but the whole of the gang are. It’s our trademark, you know?” Dennis scratched his chin. “It’s just complicated with Mac. Because, uh,” he shook his head, laughing (again). “This is embarrassing, but whatever. I’m really into Mac. Have been since I met him under the bleachers and I bought weed off him. Have been since then, and I don’t think it’s going away anytime soon.”

Debs smiled softly. She nodded, and encouraged him.

“I’m basically in love with him,” he frowned, before rolling his eyes. “In a recent development, I found out that he also has feelings for me. It’s all extremely gay, and I wish I could say that it’s all extremely nice, but it’s not nice, because my brain is making it very difficult. Like...” Dennis trailed off. “It’s only been in the last week that we’ve finally fucking admitted to each other all this shit. And actually it was only last night I told him that I was basically in love with him. But in the last year, I’ve been finding it like... more and more difficult to spend time with him without getting irritated or angry or aggressive. And I don’t know why that is, because even though he’s annoying at times, he’s really not as bad as my brain seems to think he is. My brain is being a royal dick at the moment. I’m either feeling or I’m not and I don’t know how to control when that comes or goes. So, Mac and I aren’t dating or officially together or anything, because he knows that I’m finding life kind of weird and I don’t want to hurt him anymore than I already have done.”

Debs hesitated before responding, giving him time to decide whether we was going to continue talking or not. Upon discussing his more personal feelings about Mac, he became more visible anxious. He was tapping his fingers erratically against the cushion and he was no longer making eye contact. He didn’t continue, and his nose twitched as he focused on the photos adorning the warm terracotta wallpaper.

“I get the impression that you’re not usually this candid with people, Dennis,” Debs started.

“What gave it away?” Dennis quipped sarcastically. “I’m only doing this because it was overwhelming me and I needed to get shit off my chest. Mainly, also, because I want a relationship to work for me, and if I don’t figure out how to do that, it won’t happen.”

Debs wrote something down, and Dennis’ brow twitched into a brief frown.

“Dennis, I want you to understand that I am here to offer you help with yourself and your own struggles, for your benefit, and not anybody else’s.”

“But sorting shit out with Mac-“

“Will benefit you, I understand,” Debs finished Dennis’ sentence, showing him both that she could empathise but also, that he needed to shut up and hear her out. “I think we should probably work on helping you understand that there are more important, pressing things at hand than being in a relationship. From what you’ve said to me, Mac can wait. Right? So what’s the rush? If you choose to see me again, which I hope you will, my priority will be helping you learn ways to keep yourself stable, and unharmed, and in control. You seem like the kind of man who likes to be in control, yes?”

Dennis’ nostrils flared, but where he would normally shoot her a deathly glare, he couldn’t bring himself to. 

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s get you back some control, Dennis.”

***

Dennis had engaged pretty well for the remainder of the session, but as he realised at the end of the hour, putting up the front of mental stability, even when talking ardently about his issues, was exhausting and honestly? It was fucking upsetting.

That’s another thing he was beginning to realise. He was upset. But not just after the therapy session - no, he was upset all the time at the moment, or at least in comparison to how he’d been before the hospital admission. Sure, there were some empty moments, but they’d last for an hour, tops, and then his emotions would overwhelm him and there’d be more wounds on his body and it would all just get too much. Not to mention the avalanche of shit in his brain about Mac.

So, he’d listened to Debs. He was doing therapy for himself, right? This was about him, not Mac. Instead of going to Paddy’s afterwards, or even going back to Dee’s, he decided to pursue what he’d named in his head a ‘coffee shop crawl’ - a pub crawl, but with caffeine instead of booze. Plus, he was hungry. When was the last time he’d sat down and eaten a proper meal? He didn’t remember, but he knew he wasn’t in the mood for anything decent or wholesome. The milk and sugar in coffee had calories, and if he drank as many as he was intending to on this monumental coffee shop crawl, he wouldn’t need to eat that day. He could replenish his electrolytes and not have to stomach something solid in his mouth.

It was 8pm when the final coffee shop had closed. He’d spent a horrendous amount of money on countless flat whites, and by now, he’d decided that as great as the caffeine and necessary calories in coffee was, he wanted to be drunk, or high, or both.

His mind instantly went to crack. And to his surprise, he didn’t even try to resist that thought. However, he didn’t have any cash, and he wouldn’t be able to draw out enough money to buy any because he’d spent so fucking much on coffee, not to mention the week in the motel (as crap as it was). His nose twitched as he stood outside the closing coffee shop, leaning against the brick wall as he watched the city streets begin to quiet as evening developed, tapping his fingers erratically against his leg. How annoying.

It was then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Dennis sighed, already predicting who the text was going to be from and the nature of said text; he didn’t want to deal with Mac in that moment, no - he was working on himself. He ignored it to begin with, and began walking away from the coffee shop, fingers still tapping. Apparently, the caffeine was having its desired effect. 

It was only when his phone began to ring did he stop ignoring it, but he was not happy about it. Frustratedly, he pulled his phone from his back pocket, and checked the caller ID, expecting to see the name of the blindingly irritating man he hated to admit he was in love with. It wasn’t Mac, however. It was Dee. 

Dennis answered and held the phone to his ear, but didn’t stop walking.

“Hey, Dee-“

“Where have you been today?” She snapped immediately, not even humouring Dennis with a greeting.

“What do you mean?” Dennis frowned. “I’ve been gone for a week, why do you care where I was today?”

“Mac mentioned that you hung out last night. Not that we didn’t know - he wasn’t very subtle when he hurried out of the bar yesterday evening. But my point is this - if you’re not dead, and you’re fine seeing Mac, why are you still abandoning the rest of us?”

“What did Mac say?”

“Answer my question, Dennis, I am not dicking around.”

“Jesus, fine, fine, don’t get so emotional,” he tutted down the phone, still walking but not taking any notice whatsoever of where his feet were taking him. “I was at therapy.”

“I know you were, but where have you been the rest of the day?”

“Rewind - how do you know that my appointment was today? I never told you when it was,” Dennis grit his teeth, his pace quickening, walking to... somewhere.

“Because I’m a smart person. I am your twin and I got the twin sense that you were going to therapy-“

“Mac told you, huh?”

Silence.

“Well, not immediately-“

“Did he just talk to you about it, or the rest of the gang as well?” Dennis asked. His face felt stiff, tight, uncomfortable.

Another silence. Dennis’ stomach turned.

“Fucking dick-“

“Dennis, calm the fuck down,” Dee interrupted harshly. “He was all emotional today and he didn’t say anything to begin with at all, so don’t be a complete asshole right now, yeah?”

Dennis hung up without waiting to see if she had anymore to say. He wasn’t in the town part of the city now - he found himself pacing around the water fountain. Instead of pocketing his phone, he looked at the screen for a moment, hand trembling in anger. 

He dialled Mac’s number, and held the phone to his ear, waiting for the dial tone to stop and for Mac to pick up the phone.

He didn’t answer immediately, which was unusual for Mac, but at the point where the dial tone would nearly finish and the call wouldn’t go through, he picked up.

“D-“

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Dennis snapped. Mac stuttered something incomprehensible. “Telling the whole gang about me going to therapy? Even fucking Frank?”

“Dennis, listen-“

“What, did you tell them that I’m a massive fag as well, huh?” Dennis was furious, and although before Mac answered the phone, he thought he’d be relatively composed, but as soon as he heard Mac’s pathetic whining voice, he lost all inhibition and saw red. “Did you tell them that we kissed? Did you tell them I told you I fucking love you? Hey, Mac?”

“Don’t call yourself a fag,” Mac said quietly. “That’s a horrible fucking word.”

“Oh, suddenly you have a monopoly on what words I should use about myself? Asshole.”

“Do you even know what faggot means?” Mac snapped.

“It means a gay person. I wasn’t born fucking yesterday, Jesus-“

“Faggots are what they called a bundle of sticks that they burned gay people under,” Mac was speaking quietly but with a certain firmness to his voice. He sounded angry. Asshole. “And for the record, I didn’t tell the gang any of that. Who the fuck do you take me for?”

“I take you for a piece of shit who can’t respect the boundaries of my private life,” Dennis spat. “Now the whole gang knows I’m totally fucked in the head, not just you and Dee. Frank knew I was in hospital, but his tiny baboon brain would never have comprehended how shit I feel. And Charlie?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “He’d never fucking understand.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Mac snapped, and he was no longer using a quiet voice. “Just shut up. You’re such a fucking asshole, you know? Every single one of us knows and appreciates how fucking, God, vulnerable you are at the moment-“

“Vulnerable?” Dennis spluttered, hands visibly shaking at this point. “I’m not vulnerable. I’m fucking immune to this shit, Mac. You know why?”

“Fucking enlighten me.”

“Because I’m a powerful fucking human being. I’m a fucking God, you hear? And I am gonna fucking take control, and if that means never speaking to you again, then so be it. You’re just gonna bring me down.”

“I don’t think you’re immune to this at all!” Mac’s voice was brutally harsh. “I think you’re a self-conceited asshole who can’t admit that you’re vulnerable- yes, vulnerable. Can you not see that carving yourself up every day and resorting to a therapist and landing yourself in hospital and crying yourself to sleep every night is powerful and God-like?”

“I don’t cry myself to sleep-“

“Don’t take me for an idiot,” Mac sighed firmly. “You’re fucking delusional Dennis, because I’ve seen the real you recently, and I know that you want me to fucking push with you until I understand, so let me fucking understand. I fucking adore you, asshole, but you’ve got to stop acting like this.”

Dennis was silent. Tears pricked his eyes - angry tears, he was certain of it, and his pacing had suddenly come to a halt. He listened to Mac’s uneven breathing through the phone for a long moment.

“Dennis?”

“Don’t ever fucking talk to me again.”

Dennis hung up, and the phone fell through his fingers to the floor. Suddenly, he wished he was living in the Middle Ages so that the villagers would tie him to a pile of wood and light him on fire. He wanted to burn to death. He wanted to feel the fire assail his skin, feel himself blister, feel the flesh roast. He wanted an excuse to scream in agony, and if somebody burned him alive, at least then it would be acceptable.

He was revolting, and he wanted to forget everything.

He didn’t even think to pick up his phone as he kicked his shoes off. Without hesitation or rational thought, he stepped over the edge of the fountain, and ignoring the onlookers watching him with bemusement, he plunged his socked feet into the water. He was expecting it to be cold - it wasn’t, or at least, not as much as he’d expected. The summer sun of the day had warmed it slightly. He felt his face ache, realising that he was clenching his jaw so hard his teeth were vibrating. He exhaled shakily, and waded towards the actual fountain, letting the water drench him, fully clothed. The water wasn’t deep - it only reached a little above his ankle. It wasn’t enough. He needed to be as stupid and as unexpected as possible.

Dennis sat down and slowly submerged himself in the water. It didn’t make much of a difference - standing under the stream of water had soaked him through and through, but the sensation of being surrounded by rippling water made him feel human, foetal, if anything.

The water obviously wasn’t clean. The amount of bare feet, piss, and cents that have been in this fountain were unsettling, but Dennis wasn’t in the water to get clean. It’s not like he was unaware of the filthy water either - he was doing the opposite of cleansing himself. Somehow, he thought, if he sat in this revolting water for long enough and used it as a weird metaphor for being tainted, he’d have an excuse for being the way he was. And he needed that. It’s not like he could live with his brain being like this, live with the way he’s treated Mac, live with the way he’s abused his own angelic body. He didn’t belong on this planet anymore.

The water was dripping down his face, into his mouth, over his closed eyes, clumping his eyelashes together. He didn’t originally think the water was cold, but Dennis was now shivering. He was so weak - he couldn’t even cope with sitting in some water for a few minutes, or however long had passed. 

Maybe he was God. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he was Dennis Reynolds. Maybe he was all three.

Maybe he was losing his mind.

Thoughtlessly, Dennis lay back. The water wasn’t deep, maybe the same depth as a decent bath. It was enough to submerge his body, however. He wanted to feel the filth in his lungs, to open his eyes and see the sky from a distorted view. And so, his back lowered, and then his neck was underwater, and then his head. His face remained above water, but his hearing was muffled. He could hear the fountain splashing into the water, the deep frequency of the fluid contact making him feel out of his body. 

The sky was darkening. It wasn’t a particularly beautiful colour - there were no pinks and purples staining the clouds, because there were no clouds. It was just a deep orange hue, and the moon was slightly visible, although not wholly. 

He lowered his face beneath the water, but didn’t close his eyes. It stung to begin with, but after blinking a little, he became accustomed to this state. Instinctively, he held his breath for as long as he could, staring at the sky through the surface of the water, watching the water almost directly above him fall into the water. It was beautiful.

His breath was gone, and he opened his lungs, and he was free. He was dirty and tainted but he was free from his own guilt and self-image. He wasn’t a terrible person, not at all - it was life that had made him like this. It was Barbara, it was Frank, it was Dee, it was Mac. It was this water.

His chest ached and bubble erupted from his mouth, and his consciousness went into panic mode, and suddenly, all he could see in his mind was her.

Her. It was her fault.

This wasn’t anybody. This wasn’t his family, or the man he loved, or the water he’d chosen to submerge himself in. It was Ms Klinsky.

He snapped into a sitting position and gasped for air, hacking up water that had made it into his lungs. His eyes felt alight, but even when he’d caught his breath after holding it, and even after expelling the water from his body, he felt like he was still underwater. He was still gasping for air, as if there was a hand around his throat. He closed his eyes and tried not to hyperventilate, because how fucking ridiculous was this? To get upset over a consensual, beautiful experience?

She’d been so nice to him. She’d told him that he was beautiful, and didn’t deserve the rest of the pupils. She’d made him feel better.

Didn’t she?

Dennis was rocking at this point. He was questioning it all. Had he ever enjoyed it? Why has he never thought back fondly - never thought back at all? 

Had Dee been right about her?

It didn’t bare to think about, so he tried to push it out of his consciousness, but with every attempt he made to ignore those thoughts, the stronger the memory became. 

Had he really been that uncomfortable? Had she really been that obvious about her intentions? Had he really gone home and cried all night afterwards? All of these things that he’d forgotten about the day, that his brain had chosen to warp into something else entirely. 

He didn’t need to be in the Middle Ages. His body was on fire, even when surrounded by water. It hurt, it hurt everywhere, God, everywhere.

He stood up out of the dirty water. He’d been in enough filth for a lifetime. He’d fallen, and nothing about anything was Holy anymore.

He walked out of the fountain, stepping out of the water. His phone and shoes were where he’d left them, but that seemed like a distant memory. He slipped his shoes on over his soaking socks, and picked up his phone, hoping to see some missed calls, messages, anything. 

There was nothing. No notifications at all.

He sighed and nodded, pursing his lips. He went to pocket his phone, before realising that putting a phone into a wet pocket was not the best idea.

He didn’t know what to do, so he sat on the edge of the fountain, shivering. Nowhere to go, nobody to see, nothing to do. What was the point? He wanted a drink, and he wanted crack - only one of those were realistic, but he didn’t want to go to Paddy’s whilst they were still open - seeing any of the gang, let alone Mac, would be absolutely and totally destructive. So he sat until the sky darkened, motionless. 

Something inside Dennis had died that day, and his body had quit. He hardly blinked the whole time he was sat there, because the feeling of his eyelids sliding over his raw eyeballs hurt like a bitch. He didn’t move a muscle, because his body wasn’t his own in that moment. It was detached completely. He noticed his phone buzz a couple of times.

After a while, he came to, mostly because he realised how cold it had dropped. He was mostly dry, besides his feet and some areas of his clothes. He felt totally separate still - drowsily, he picked up his phone to check the time. 2:45am.

There were a couple of messages from Dee.

‘The flat door is unlocked for when you come home. Sleep on the sofa’

‘Dennis where are you?’

‘Whatever, I hope you’re pleased with yourself’

He rolled his eyes. Stupid bitch.

He collected himself and his thoughts, and the first cohesive thing to come to mind was that he really, really needed a drink. Paddy’s would be closed now, and from Dee’s texts, they’d all gone home, or at least Dee and Mac. So he began the fairly short walk to Paddy’s.

He walked briskly, the notion of a stiff glass of whiskey with a couple of ice cubes making him eager and awake enough to speed walk. Shortly, he arrived at Paddy’s, and the lights were off inside, but he realised as he stood before the front doors, that the gang would have locked up, or should have done, at least.

He sighed, closing his eyes in frustration, before looking at the door.

Fuck it, worth a try, right?

Without much hope, he tried the door handle, but the door opened, unlocked. He rolled his eyes - was nobody who worked there responsible? Nevertheless, he walked in, before freezing in his tracks. 80s music, the Footloose soundtrack specifically, was playing from the back office, and the door was open, full light streaming through into the darkened bar. He was about to turn around and leave, when he heard an unmistakable voice sing along to the music - Charlie.

Dennis didn’t particularly want to see Charlie if he knew about the therapist, but he had to take into consideration that if Charlie was at the bar at round about 3am, he was probably high, which meant he had drugs of some description. It wouldn’t be crack, but being high on anything would be better than nothing. Dennis closed the door behind him, quietly closing the front door.

“Charlie?” He called out, which was a weird feeling in itself - no words had left his lips since about half eight that evening. His voice was dry, and opening his mouth and forming words felt physically uncomfortable for his jaw. The music stopped immediately. “Charlie, it’s Dennis, dude!”

Charlie poked his head around the door, eyes absent of any recognition for a moment, before his face lit up a little drowsily.

“What’s up, Dennis!” Charlie greeted, hyperactive but sluggish at the same time, if that was even possible. He walked over with a stride in his step, as if music were still playing.

“Footloose, huh?” Dennis raised an eyebrow with a smirk. “Nice singing, by the way.”

“No,” Charlie protested, drawing out the word. “I was listening to uh... Metallica, and I was singing along yeah, but to the song Rockstar.”

“That’s Nickelback, buddy,” Dennis said, feeling his whole body and mental state soften upon the familiar sight of Charlie being a dumbass. He walked behind the bar and wasted no time in pouring himself a glass of Jim Beam (they’d stopped buying expensive whiskey because it didn’t sell - everyone who came to the bar these days were poorer than them). He dropped an ice cube or two into the glass and immediately gulped it down, polishing off the glass in a couple of seconds flat. “You live your best fuckin’ life though, dude. I’m not shitting on Footloose.”

“Are you sure it’s Nickelback?” Charlie’s voice was as grating and irritating as ever, but the off-putting tone gave Dennis a bit of familiarity. He felt in his body once more. “I don’t think it’s Nickelback dude... maybe you’re right though, it might not be Metallica - oh you know what, I remember! It’s an Avril Lavigne song, of course-“

“Avril Lavigne is a woman, Charlie,” Dennis rolled his eyes, pouring another whiskey, but filling the glass to the brim this time. He took a gulp, looking Charlie up and down as his face went on a journey, his drugged up brain trying to process gender. “How do you do it, man?”

“How do I do what?” Charlie raised an eyebrow, reaching out to Dennis’ glass of whiskey. Dennis batted his hand away, so Charlie shrugged and picked up the bottle, taking a swig. He pulled a face. “Beer is so much nicer.”

“How do you live like you do?”

“Wow, fuck you man-“

“No, no not in a bad way,” Dennis shook his head, watching Charlie’s offended stare turn into one of confusion. “How do you live life so fucking... well, all things considered? Like you’ve lived some fucking shit, right?”

“Well sure, I guess-“

“Mrs Kelly was a prostitute, you never had a dad but now you might, but he’s an asshole, the whole thing with your Uncle Jack...” Dennis shrugged. “You’re doing better than I am, man.”

“First off, nothing ever went down with Uncle Jack,” Charlie clarified firmly, although his voice was wavering - not from emotion, but from whatever drugs he was on really kicking in. “Secondly, yeah. I’m doin’ loads better than you, man, like... the fuck’s going on with you, dude?”

“I-“

“It’s not like you haven’t had your deal of shit, though, buddy,” Charlie’s eyes were half-open, and from his appearance, Dennis was shocked that anything coherent was coming from his lips at all. “I mean, Ms Klinsky?” Dennis’ stomach turned, and he looked away stubbornly, sniffing indignantly, taking three huge gulps of whiskey. He felt it burn his throat and warm his body. “And Barbara dying? And the whole... weird, sexuality shit?-“

“Excuse me?” Dennis raised an eyebrow, slamming his glass down on the table. “So Mac told everyone.”

“Mac didn’t tell us shit, we figured this out. We reeaaally aren’t as stupid as you think,” Charlie corrected. “But for the record, if you and Mac are banging? Good for you, bro.”

“We’re not banging.”

“Banging, not banging, what’s the difference with you two?” Charlie took another swig of the whiskey, before putting it firmly down. “God, that’s gross. I’m getting a beer.”

“Answer my question.”

“Question?”

“Yes, asshole,” Dennis snapped, which bounced off Charlie completely. “How do you do it?”

Charlie chuckled, climbing unceremoniously over the bar and grabbing a beer from the ice box.

“I drink, I sniff glue, I cry, and I eat cat food. Works a treat - hey, you should try it! Come back with me and eat some cat food, it’ll do wonders for your sleep.”

“Pass,” Dennis tried not to smile out of amusement. “I’ll go for some glue, though.”

“Fresh outta glue, dude,” Charlie opened his beer and took a swig. “I have got some gasoline in the back office, though.”

“Where the fuck did you get gasoline at 3 in the morning?”

“I keep a stash in the basement.”

“Of course you do,” Dennis raised an eyebrow, and picked an ice cube from the whiskey glass and popped it in his mouth. The cold almost burned the roof of his mouth. “Lead the way, maestro.”

***

5am, and Charlie and Dennis were playing pool. Well, not playing. There weren’t even any pool cues involved - it was more like air hockey, but with extremely heavy pool palls and bare hands blocking the holes in the table. Tom Tom Club was playing on the juke box, and the situation was a little surreal.

Their hands were bruised at this point, and Dennis was ready to give up, not because of the pain, per say, but because he was thinking. Thinking a little too much. His head was clouded with chemicals so they weren’t particularly coherent thoughts, but it made him lose interest in the ‘game’ almost instantly.

Charlie’s only way of coping? Drugs, drink, crying and animal food. Is that what Dennis was going to have to do to make it all stop? Is that what Dennis was going to have to do to get her out of his fucking brain? It worked for Charlie and his Uncle Jack. Would it work for him?

No. He’d rather die than become a functioning drug addict with a penchant for eating tinned cat food. It worked for Charlie, sure. But he was high right now and if anything? He felt worse. What did he have to do to get some fucking respite? To free himself from filth?

He stood up and took his hands off the pool table, and Charlie scored a point. He didn’t celebrate though - he looked up at Dennis with a lucid confusion.

“Wh-“

“I don’t like this.”

“The game?” Charlie frowned. “It’s a great game, dude!-“

“I love the game. I don’t like my life,” Dennis said, with absolutely no filter present. The gasoline was fucking with his brain, his thoughts, his inhibitions, sure. But he knew, as this spiel exited his lips, that this was some repressed shit that had been bubbling on the back burner for some time. “I’ve got nothing left to do, I don’t think.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Charlie frowned. “You can do the thing with the shrink, right?”

Dennis’ nose twitched.

“I’d have to talk about certain shit at some point and I’d rather avoid that.”

“Then what are you gonna do, bro?”

Dennis shrugged.

“Could take a trip to the Schuylkill Bridge,” Dennis spoke blankly, eyes void of anything, as if this were a casual thing he was saying. “See how much water my lungs can take. Go down the road, not across the street. Test the tensile strength of my neck muscles.”

Charlie’s stomach turned. He felt physically nauseous as those images popped into his brain, visualising Dennis doing these things. His jaw trembled.

Dennis was still staring blankly, putting up a front of emotionless, even though he was crumbling inside. Charlie took a few steps towards him, and Dennis frowned. Charlie stopped in front of him, and Dennis suddenly couldn’t make eye contact as the gravity of his situation sunk in.

They stood motionless for a second, before Charlie reached up in a split second and slapped Dennis across the face, hard.

Dennis gasped and made a pathetic noise, holding his stinging cheek.

“What the fuck, bro?”

“Fuck you!” Charlie shouted, tears very present in his eyes. “If you kill yourself, I’ll kill you!”

“Well-“

“It would fucking destroy me, and Dee, and Frank,” Charlie said, voice wavering and wobbly as his emotions deregulated. “And Mac? Aren’t you thinking of Mac?”

“He wouldn’t care after how I treated him today-“

“Jesus Christ, man, shut up! Listen to yourself!” Charlie shouted. “Mac would be the one to care more than anybody in the world. He fucking burst into tears after you told him not to talk to you anymore. Like, man, you know like, if that upset him that much, can you imagine what it would do to him if you just fucking disappeared?”

Dennis clenched his fist, and went to take a step back from Charlie, before Charlie clung to Dennis, flinging his arms around him and squeezing him in a hug that was almost painful.

“Dude,” Dennis muttered. “Let go.”

“No, fuck you,” Charlie’s voice broke. “I’m not letting go. And the gang aren’t letting go. Mac isn’t letting go. Get it into your tiny fucking brain.”

Dennis blinked, looking down at the top of Charlie’s unruly mop of hair, and felt a lump in his throat as he felt Charlie’s body tremble. 

“Don’t you dare die, you fucking bastard.”

Dennis took a deep breath that he didn’t intend to be shaky, and hesitantly wrapped his arms around Charlie. Charlie’s grip around Dennis relaxed a little, but he was trembling as he hugged Dennis.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you...” Charlie whispered against Dennis’ chest. 

It was horrible, and Dennis’ face, heart and head hurt. But he felt loved.

If nobody else, Charlie wasn’t going to let him go.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw 😳

Things had gone too far with Charlie. He had said too much. So once Charlie had passed out in one of the booths and Dennis was a little more sober, he took the money from the till (it came to a total of around $200), one bottle each of tequila, whiskey and vodka and left, heading to the same motel he’d been staying at before. He deleted the little social media he had from his phone, and he blocked the gang’s numbers. He didn’t want anybody to get ahold of him. He couldn’t live with them. He couldn’t live with himself.

And so, he arrived at the motel at about 6:30am, cash in hand. He hadn’t bought any clean clothes, but that was the least of his worries. He also hadn’t slept - he didn’t want to, because if he was going to admit it, he was terrified of what dreams would plague him after the day he’d had. 

He checked into his room which, funnily enough, was the same one as last time. He paid for four nights, which cost him $80, and would pay for more nights once he’d got ahold of some more money somehow. So, he discarded the booze he’d nicked onto the bed which he suspected hadn’t been cleaned sufficiently, and undressed. It was high time for a shower.

Making sure the curtains were closed, he kicked his clothes off until he was butt naked and made his way into the bathroom. He opened the cabinet in search of the graciously provided soap and shampoo, but stopped, surprised more than anything. Besides the replenished soap and shampoo were the plastic box of razors he’d left there from the day before. He raised an eyebrow, fingers hovering over them, before deciding against it, for no other reason than he simply wasn’t in the mood.

He took the soap and shampoo and closed the cabinet, to be met with his reflection in the dirty, cracked mirror. The makeup he’d applied yesterday morning before his therapy had cracked and flaked - the foundation was dry, the mascara had clumped, and the concealer wasn’t even noticeable. His hair was greasy, but all things considered, he’d certainly looked worse. It didn’t stop the frown from forming on his face, however - he ran the tap til it was warm and scrubbed at his face with the soap, watching the orange-grey liquid pour down the sink. The soap stung his eyes but it really didn’t matter, because the makeup was off and his face was clean and he was looking in the mirror at the face he was usually repulsed by but... didn’t mind?

He saw the freckles on his skin, the discolouration around his eyes, the blotchiness that was even more pronounced after washing his face. He brushed a finger against his bottom lip, that was chapped where it usually wasn’t. And although it was the last thought he wanted to cross his mind, he thought of Mac. 

He didn’t even bother removing the thought from his mind. This train of thought was so commonplace at this point, it was pointless torturing himself over it, so as he looked in the mirror at his fractured appearance, he let his mind wander.

Mac wouldn’t mind that Dennis looked like this, that his lips were chapped. He’d kiss them anyway, and the dry skin wouldn’t be dry for long. Now, he didn’t need to wonder whether or not Mac was a good kisser - he knew that he was. And Mac didn't always wear the same aftershave, but he always smelled like Mac, and that’s what really mattered. 

His finger was still resting upon his lip. His eyes rested on the reflection of his mouth, and as he was alone and finally didn’t care about how he felt about Mac, he let himself be... well, Dennis.

And so, he let his tongue lick the tip of his finger, eyes fluttering a little. He ran his damp finger along his lip, before closing his lips around it, eyes fully closed at this point.

There was something obscenely dirty about sucking on your own finger, naked, in the bathroom of a dirt cheap motel, but he wasn’t against it and how it made him feel. 

He did need to shower, however. 

Opening his mouth, he removed his finger, noticing how slick the skin looked, wondering if he’d ever have Mac’s lips around his finger like that. He wanted that, now more than ever.

Even though he’d told Mac to never speak to him again. That may have thrown a spanner in the works.

Dennis rolled his eyes at himself, before stepping away from the mirror and turning on the shower, waiting for it to heat up to the hottest it would go, and even then it was lukewarm. It didn’t matter, though. A shower was a shower.

He climbed in and let the water wash over his face, letting it seep into his eyes and mouth, making it hard to breathe through his nose, until he pulled back, gasping, flicking the water from his eyes. His fascination with water and specifically, how fatal it could be, in the last day or so was becoming overwhelming. Oh, to be drowning in the middle of the ocean, to watch the sun slowly fade out of vision, to watch the air leave your lungs and bubble to the surface.

The shower water smelled slightly metallic, so Dennis made it quick. He washed his hair and body thoroughly, every few minutes enveloping himself in the steady stream of water, allowing it to seep down his throat, to clog his nose, the thrill of being so in control over this element exciting him. 

He imagined sitting at the bottom of a pool, content. He imagined the feeling of having no oxygen, his body feeling tight, then painful, then white hot, but perfectly okay as he accepted his fate at the floor, eyes wide open. He imagined a hand in his, looking across to see Mac, with a soft smile. 

He imagined swimming to the surface and taking those oh so satisfying gasps for air. He imagined Mac surfacing with him, coughing his lungs up but being happy, proud, that Dennis was no longer drowning. 

He turned the shower water off immediately.

Mac wasn’t going to be the one to save him. It was going to be Dennis’ choice to swim to the surface. But Mac was going to be there at the bottom, and in between, and at the surface.

He’d pushed him away. Again.

With a certain level of morbid desperation, he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a stained, but washed, towel that had been supplied. He rubbed his hair with it aggressively, before he wrapped it around his waist, not bothering to get back into his clothes just yet. Walking past the mirror, he tried to glimpse himself, but the glass was foggy and Dennis was merely a misty silhouette.

He paused, and reached out, drawing a smiley face. He watched it for a moment, as the condensation collected and dripped down the glass, making the smile look like it was crying. He was still for a moment, before swiping it away hurriedly, making his way back into his room.

Without doing anything else, he collapsed onto the bed, the springs creaking under the shift in weight. He lay motionless for a moment, settling into his own thoughts. He was restless, and a bit stressed, and Mac was on his mind (but then again, when was he not?).

He chewed his lip, staring at the ceiling as he lay still for another moment, before thinking, fuck it, raising an eyebrow at himself as if to admit to himself that yeah, he was surrendering. What was the point in pretending to not be the way he was when there was nobody around but him?

He threw his towel off from around his waist and looked down, not sure how to feel. He knew Mac was into him, Mac knew Dennis felt the same way. And they’d kissed, and at some point, they’d established they were going to be in a relationship. At some point, they would’ve fucked, and now that wasn’t going to happen.

Whatever, right?

Where he’d usually pick up his phone and open up incognito, he didn’t that day, and instead closed his eyes and gripped the inside of his thigh, scraping his nails gently across the tender skin. It felt nice, sure. He wished it was Mac. God, he wanted it to be Mac.

He didn’t waste time that day, not like usual where he’d watch bad porn to turn himself on, because the daydream of Mac scraping his nails down Dennis’ skin, or imagining his finger in Dennis’ mouth was enough to make him want it. 

He’d seen Mac naked plenty times before. Dennis wondered what he’d look like crawling on top of him, with a certain look in his eye, naked, exposed.

Dennis sighed a tiny bit, eyebrows knitted in a frown as he swiftly moved his hand from his thigh to his dick, which twitched embarrassingly quickly upon his own touch. He let his hand gently, slowly, move up and down, almost tickling himself, his breath a little lighter than usual at this point. He liked to think that Mac would be into handjobs, at least to begin with. Would he be firm or gentle? Dennis needed to know.

His head was clouded at this point, totally clouded, and as he got harder and harder in such a short period of time, his grip tightened a little, and he began to move quicker, and quicker, until it felt... God, really good.

Maybe it was because it was the first time he’d let himself imagine Mac whilst doing this, or maybe it was because he was releasing so much tension and stress, or maybe it was both, but as he began to jerk, back threatening to arch, lip bitten, he felt better than he’d felt in a long time from his own hand. 

Would Mac clamber atop him? Kiss him slow, dirty, give him hickeys like they were teenagers, whilst jerking off Dennis’ dick? Would it be romantic, or would it be desperate and hot, breathing laboured, perfectly imperfect?

He wondered how Mac’s dick would feel in his hand, in his mouth, Christ, dare he say it, in his ass. Would it be good? Would it be better than any of the girls he’d had? He hoped so.

His pace quickened, and although he realised it was probably his imagination, he could almost feel the veins in his dick pulsate - he was so hard and so fucking turned on it was almost painful, so as he felt his stomach knot and his dick twitch, a very small and strangulated noise came from the back of his throat.

Would Mac say his name, when he saw this look in Dennis’ eye? Would he hear Dennis’ grunts and smile to himself and kiss him again, biting his lip and letting his wet lips kiss down his jaw? Would he bite Dennis’ neck and leave a mark for the world to look at and see ‘Mac and Dennis are finally fucking’?

Dennis kept his eyes squeezed closed and teeth clamped down on his bottom lip as he came, feeling immense as his back arched and his legs kicked out in an embarrassing amount of pleasure. His breath was erratic and he let out a mortifying, guttural moan.

Is that what jacking off felt like when you were thinking about somebody you were in love with? He wouldn’t know, but there was a first time for everything, right?

He let out a shaky breath and wiped his hand on his stomach, before grabbing the discarded towel and doing his best to clean himself up. Stupid of him, to have done that after a shower. Whatever, he thought. Chucking the even dirtier towel aside, he took a moment to process how good he’d just fucking felt. It paled in comparison to thinking of chicks.

So, he was definitely gay.

His train of thought faltered as he remembered Mac, and the things he’d said. Not only that, but he’d stolen from the bar, which would not only anger Mac, but everyone else as well.

He didn’t want to distance himself from them, because who was he kidding - he loved them all. Even Frank in his own weird way. He loved Dee, who tirelessly drove him to the hospital and was as comforting as she could be. He loved Charlie, who clung onto him, begging him not to end it. He loved Mac. 

None of them loved him. Not now, anyway. Not after what he’d done.

What was he fucking thinking? Telling the one person he’d ever truly been in love with to never speak to him again? It was one of the more stupid things he’d ever done, and Dennis had done a lot of stupid things, and it killed him to know that he wasn’t going to get another chance. After the suburbs? After kissing him? After telling him that? It was irredeemable.

He was irredeemable.

He bit his lip, nose twitching, and suddenly he felt like crying. But he wasn’t going to lower himself to crying after jacking off, so he stood up, a frown etched onto his face. He walked naked to the bathroom, where he’d left his clothes. 

He was irredeemable.

He slipped on his clothes, shaky hands fastening the buttons at the front of his shirt. He felt weak, if nothing else. He was losing himself, felt himself slipping - he’d let the person he was in love with go. No, actually. He hadn’t let him go, he’d made him go. He’d forced him to go. He’d forced himself to feel like this.

He was totally fucking irredeemable.

He was fully clothed now, so he leaned into his room to grab the dirty towel from the floor, hanging it up on a hook on the bathroom wall. He made a mental note to buy a new one from whatever shop would sell a cheap one - and whilst he was at that, to buy some cheap clothes to keep him going. 

He closed the bathroom door and walked over to his bed, collapsing face first. The sleep deprivation was catching up with him now, on top of the devastating weight on his shoulders. He could jerk off as much as he liked. He could scroll through photos of Mac as much as he liked. He could do any of that his his hearts content, but he’d never feel Mac’s lips on his again. He’d never be able to hold his hand, to kiss him, to make out, to fuck, to call him his boyfriend. He probably wouldn’t be able to go back to the bar either, at this point. Not just because he couldn’t face Mac, but because he’d robbed the gang blind. 

He took a shaky breath, scrunching up his face to force the potential for tears into submission. Crying wasn’t going to solve anything, least of all make him feel better. 

His phone, which was laying on the pillow next to him, started to vibrate. For a split second, he considered answering it, or at least checking the caller ID, before reminding himself that he’d blocked Mac’s number. Everyone’s numbers. It was probably a scam call. He ignored it. After it had stopped ringing, he lifted his head and checked his phone - the call was from an unknown number, and it was 8:56am.

He must’ve fallen asleep after that, because he remembered being awoken to a violent knock on the motel room door. 

Dennis jerked his head up, squinting through barely open eyes. There had been four, aggressive knocks on the door, so harsh that it made the door rattle in its frame. Dennis blinked, confused, and checked the time. It was 7:37pm. What the fuck?

He didn’t get up to answer the door immediately, waiting to see if the person would knock again. Rubbing his eyes of sleep, he felt his hands touch damp cheeks. 

Great, he’d been crying - crying without even realising, whilst asleep, at that.

Another, more urgent knock on the door, this time followed by a voice, shouting.

“Dennis? Dennis! Dennis, are you there?” 

It was Mac.

Dennis immediately sat up, but didn’t answer the door for a minute. He simply sat, frozen in what he could only describe as fear. Not fear of being hurt, but fear of Mac’s reaction. Why was he there? To tell him to go away and stay gone?

How did he even know Dennis was there, anyway?

More knocking, and a slightly clearer voice this time, obviously closer to the door.

“Dennis, please, if you’re in there... open the door?” Mac sounded... something. Dennis didn’t know how to describe the emotion present in Mac’s voice, but it made his speech wobble. Dennis didn’t reply. “Fuck... fucking hell, Jesus fuck...”

More banging.

Dennis felt his frame shrink, but he needed to open the door. He knew that.

So he aggressively wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve and sauntered over to the door, all the while Mac’s voice growing more and more desperate, the knocking growing faster and louder and more desperate.

Dennis hesitated before the door, feeling his jaw wobble. He closed his eyes and took as steady and deep of a breath as he could muster.

He opened the door, to reveal Mac, who was obviously about to have carried on knocking, being stopped dead in his tracks. The journey his facial expressions went through were overwhelming.

It started with shock, unaltered, before forming into a face that looked like it was about to burst into tears, lips parted, brows scrunched up, neck veins a little pronounced. It then turned to confusion, his brows furrowing deeply, eyes looking Dennis’ appalling appearance up and down, before into some form of disgust, hurt, anger, pain, all at once. This all occurred in the space of two seconds.

“H-“ 

“What the fuck, dude?!” Mac shouted, voice still wobbling. “So you’re not dead?”

“No-“

“I can fucking see that, you total fucking heartless, asshole piece of shit!” Mac choked, turning away from Dennis for a moment, hands on his head as he exhaled shakily towards the cloudy sky. “We were fucking terrified bro, we tried to call you this morning when Charlie realised you’d been there last night but weren’t anymore- and then we realised that you’d fucking blocked all of our numbers?”

“Mac-“

“And then we tried calling you from pay phones and shit, and still nothing?!” Mac whipped back around to face Dennis, and Dennis could see that at this point, there were tears spilling down his face. “And you told Charlie you wanted to die - you told him you wanted to die and then fucking vanished without a fucking trace, after stealing like, $200 and three bottles of hard liquor?”

“Mac, please-“

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mac was starting to get less upset and more angry. “We try to help you and you fucking shove us away like we’re dirt on the bottom of your fucking shoes, like you’re fucking superior, like you’re above it? Well I’m so sorry to piss on your bonfire, Mr Golden God, but you’re not above us. You’re a human being, like the rest of us, and you need a fucking reality check-“

“You’re making a scene,” Dennis hissed, clenching his jaw to stop the obvious tremor. “Just come inside-“

“I’ll make a scene. I’ll make a God damn scene, asshole, because you broke my fucking heart and then let me believe you fucking killed yours-“

Dennis grabbed Mac’s shoulder and pulled him inside the motel room, slamming the door. Mac was stunned, furious, shaking Dennis’ hand off him furiously.

“Don’t fucking touch me right now, dude,” Mac said dangerously. “I thought you were fucking dead, Dennis, I thought you were dead, I mean- d-do you know how much that fucking killed me? Just the fucking thought that I wasn’t ever gonna see you again?”

“You thought that anyway, after what I said on the phone.”

“No I didn’t, dick, because I know you better than that!” Mac’s voice was almost pleading, pleading for Dennis to listen. Dennis was listening. He really was. “It was a fucking dick move and it broke my heart, actually, yeah. It fucking hurt. But I knew you’d come around, in either a day or a week or a month - you always do come around. You’re so fucking unpredictable.”

“I know,” Dennis’ voice was embarrassingly small. He didn’t know how else to respond. 

“And I was okay with the idea of kissing you and all that shit whilst you figured yourself out, even with all the unpredictability. But to tell me to never talk to you again, after barely a few days? And then disappearing after telling Charlie you wanna die?” Mac laughed in disbelief at the situation. “I don’t know if I can do that. Not that you want to now - you made that abundantly fucking clear.”

“Mac-“

“And it’s not fair for you to tell me you love me, and then-“

“Mac-“

“And then just fucking throw it away as if those words never came out of your mouth-“

“Mac!” Dennis snapped, looking up at Mac with a firm, yet vulnerable expression. It was the first time Mac had properly looked at Dennis during the argument. He softened, only a little bit, but the curve of his brows differed and his nose twitched.

“What?”

“I...” Dennis started to speak, before realising he had no idea what the fuck to say. “I do want... to... be that, with you,” he closed his eyes in concentration as he spoke. “And I-I, I do, you know, love you.”

“Then why in God’s name did you say that to me? Do this? Do all of this-“

“Because I need fucking help! Okay, Mac?” Dennis yelled, gesticulating wildly with his arms, starting to pace a little. He couldn’t stay still, not whilst having this conversation. “I need help because my brain is fucking rotting. I’m fucking losing myself. And- and, I don’t know! I needed to get back some control and my asshole fucking cunt of a brain told me that I need to tell you those things, so I don’t feel totally helpless. And guess what? It didn’t fucking work. And after I hung up, I thought, I thought for so long, and I sat in the fountain and I felt fucking filthy, dude. Fucking filthy, because I’ve done so much fucking, just, total shit! To you- and to the gang, and to fucking random people I know nothing about. And I can’t actually think of another way to fucking solve this issue. I’m irredeemable. And I fucked up, and I’ve lost everyone. I’ve lost fucking everyone, I’m finished.”

Mac was totally silent, but Dennis couldn’t see his facial expression. He was a couple of steps away, facing away, eyes closed, shaky hands pinching the bridge of his nose.

The silence almost dragged on for too long, when Mac finally spoke up.

“Fuck you.”

Dennis’ mouth fell open, and he turned to face Mac, eyes very much open now.

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck you,” Mac repeated, firmly, sadly. “Fuck you for thinking that you’ve lost everyone. Do you really think that we’re shallow enough to drop you in the middle of a mental breakdown?” He shook his head, and Dennis could see his heart break as he spoke. “Why do you think I came here today? If you’d lost me, I wouldn’t be standing here. If you’d fucking lost me, dude, I wouldn’t care. Newsflash, asshole, I’ve cared about you the whole God damn time!”

Dennis flinched as he heard his own words, used just months prior, used for him.

“W... why?”

“Because I love you.”

Dennis sniffed indignantly, or what he thought was indignantly, until he realised that he was crying. Fucking pathetic. He aggressively wiped his tears away, so desperately it almost hurt.

“Well you shouldn’t.”

“Why the fuck not?” Mac pleaded. His voice wasn’t angry anymore. He was just desperate.

“Because I’m a terrible person, and I’m gonna break your heart.”

“There’d be nothing we couldn’t work through-“

“I’m gonna break your heart, because,” Dennis interrupted firmly, although physically incapable of making eye contact. “Because if you love me when I do find the courage to kill myself, or do so accidentally, whenever that may be, it’ll hurt. I don’t want you to hurt.”

“You’re not gonna break my heart.”

“Did you not just hear me?”

“You’re not gonna top yourself.”

“I probably am, at some point.”

“It won’t get that bad.”

“Yeah?” Dennis finally looked up, almost pissed off. Mac was standing a bit closer to him - there was maybe a large step between them. “How do you know that?”

“I won’t let it.”

Dennis blinked, and frowned, exhaling deeply, trembling.

“That is exceptionally unrealistic and romanticised.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Mac snapped, his expression firm, concerned.

Dennis faltered. Mac had a very warped idea of how much his affection could help him - the reality was, it was very little. But God, the earnest coming from the man before him made Dennis’ chest ache.

He looked at the floor, back up at Mac, at the window, at the floor again, before back at Mac.

Dennis didn’t do or say anything for a few seconds, just watching Mac’s expression to see if it wavered, cracked; it didn’t. 

Dennis scrunched his bare toes against the stained motel carpet, his gaze flickering from Mac’s eyes, to his jaw, his stubble, his slightly blotchy cheeks, to his lips.

Kissing him at that moment would’ve probably been very inappropriate. 

Mac and Dennis, however, weren’t appropriate. 

Fuck it, right? 

In a very quick instant, he took a hurried step forward and grabbed Mac, one hand on his jaw, one on his neck, and with total, total desperation, smashed his lips against Mac’s.

It was ridiculous. It could hardly even be classed as a kiss it was so messy, so lacking in formal intimacy, so brief. There was hardly time for Dennis to gauge whether Mac had even kissed him back by the time he’d pulled away, taking a small step back and scratching his nose awkwardly, casually.

Mac blinked, and Dennis didn’t know what the fuck was going on inside his head. He wasn’t wearing his heart on his sleeve like usual, he wasn’t obviously leaning one way or another. He simply stood there, frown a little knotted, lips parted, but that was about it.

“Dennis, I-“ Mac started, taking a deep breath. “Is that a good idea?”

Dennis was quiet for a moment, as if he was considering Mac’s words - we wasn’t, but he wanted Mac to believe he was thinking it through. Truthfully, he didn’t need to think about it anymore; after nearly losing Mac, Dennis knew what he wanted. And he was scared that if he thought about it too hard, the warped part of his brain would convince otherwise.

So after a couple of seconds, he simply said - “yes.”

Mac looked at Dennis uncertainly, and almost looked as if he were going to walk away, or shake his head, or tell Dennis to think clearly.

He did none of these things. He just stood, a little gormless, watching Dennis raise an eyebrow, not in a suggestive way as such, but more in a way as if to say ‘you still in there, buddy?’. Dennis watched Mac change. Not his facial expression, not really, but there was a sudden glint in his eye. A look, that Dennis had seen before, but had never recognised it for what it was.

It took less than a second for Mac to make his decision after Dennis noticed the look in his eyes. 

Less than a second, and suddenly, Mac had stepped to close the already small gap, pressing their bodies flush against each other, so suddenly and with such desperate intention, it practically winded Dennis - a little gasp emitted from the back of his throat as they both stumbled a little. Mac grabbed Dennis’ waist with one hand, but didn’t kiss him immediately, although their lips were practically touching. Dennis could feel Mac’s breath, warm against his lips - his breath smelled like beer, but when would it not? 

As they stood like that, practically sharing the same breath, Dennis realised how fast his breathing was. Not panicking, simply flustered, if anything else, and emotional. 

“Mac?” He whispered, and as he spoke and his lips move, he could feel his top lip bump Mac’s. 

“You’re an asshole,” Mac whispered.

“Would you just fucking kiss me already?” Dennis breathed a chuckle, and felt Mac’s grip on his waist tighten. 

There was no more conversation. In an instant, Mac had pressed his lips to Dennis’, a little more carefully than how Dennis had initiated this, but still clumsy. And this wasn’t like their other, few kisses. This was on a different plane of God damn existence.

This kiss was built up anger, and pain, and fear, and tension gushing out in one swift motion. And it wasn’t desperate, believe it or not, or at least it wasn’t to begin with. To begin with, it was romantic, if nothing else. Lips moving, tongues teasing, breathing quickened, warm. Eyes closed, world distant. Muffled.

It was at the point that Mac’s hand, that had been firmly on Dennis’ waist, started tracing lightly up Dennis’ side, up his back. It made Dennis shiver.

“That tickles, dickhead,” Dennis breathed almost silently. Mac smirked against Dennis’ lips, that were slick at this point. He brushed a couple of fingers down Dennis’ side, and grinned when Dennis’ breath hitched and he squirmed a little. Barely seconds of this passed when Dennis gave in completely, lost all inhibition, and grabbed the hand that Mac was tickling him with.

They made eye contact, as they had been, but differently now. Mac looked from Dennis, down to their hands almost battling to either tickle the other, or to stop the other from tickling them. 

Dennis was hoping Mac would realise what was happening here, so he didn’t have to. Surely, the look in his eye was enough to make Mac aware. Surely, his parted lips, his shallow breath, his hand around his. He wanted Mac to do something about it. 

It was easy to say that Dennis was not disappointed.

Mac crushed his lips against Dennis’, but they were no longer standing motionless - Mac was edging Dennis backwards, the two of them taking clumsy steps towards the bed, which they reached in record time. Mac pushed Dennis backwards onto the bed, and Dennis felt himself breathe a little heavier as his head hit the pillow aggressively, smirking at Mac as he crawled on top of him.

Mac kissed him again for a brief moment, before pulling away, fumbling with the top button Dennis’ shirt. 

“I’m still angry with you,” Mac raised an eyebrow, as he unfastened the top two buttons.

“You seem furious,” Dennis chuckled as he looked down, Mac awkwardly working his way through the buttons, cursing under his breath as he went. Something about Mac muttering ‘fuck’ and ‘God damn it’ was extremely hot, in this situation, and Dennis didn’t even care that he felt that way. 

“I am,” Mac looked up at Dennis as he unfastened the final button. He pulled Dennis into a sitting position, and desperately, Dennis pulled the shirt off, throwing it across the room where he heard it land, softly, somewhere. “I’m so mad at you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mac nodded as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, the fabric pulling at his neat, styled hair. He also threw his top across the room. “You’re an asshole.”

“You’re the asshole,” Dennis challenged. Mac pushed him back against the bed, making Dennis crack a smile.

Mac shook his head with an annoyed smile.

“Bitch.”

Dennis looked at Mac, who was sat atop his crotch, shirtless. And God, was he fucking beautiful. Dennis took the time to notice the freckles that flowed down his shoulders, to his collarbones. The healthy fat that padded, but didn’t cover, a softly muscular stomach; he was everything in that moment, that Dennis had never seen before. It almost made him self-conscious, but not quite - simply because Dennis’ body had been in decline. He was weak and weedy now, and his skin was a little too pale. His stomach didn’t have rolls, not really, it was actually the slightest bit concave, and as he lay there, he became aware of his arm, and how fucked it was. Not that it should’ve bothered him; Mac had seen it already. But in this situation, it seemed different.

Mac rested his hands upon Dennis’ abdomen, gently brushing up and over the little muscle Dennis had left, up to his ribs that were at the beginning of becoming visible, over his chest, his pecs, his shoulders, before resting each hand on the pillow, one on each side of Dennis’ head. 

Dennis swallowed, and looked at Mac, who's facial expression held a tremendous amount of emotion.

“Disappointing, right?” Dennis chuckled, looking up at Mac.

“Uh, no,” Mac shook his head, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you topless before a ridiculous amount of times. And for the record, you’re just as hot now as you always have been.”

“Shut up,” Dennis rolled his eyes.

“You shut up, bozo,” Mac frowned, which seemed a little counterproductive after using such a comical name to call Dennis. But the familiar word, as insincere and as stupid as it was, made Dennis’ heart beat so hard, his fucking rib cage may as well have shattered. “Idiot.”

Dennis opened his mouth, but closed it again. He was speechless. 

It was then, Mac kissed him, softly - and it was, this time. Soft, that is. Not lacking in intimacy, it was no less keen, it was just slower, with a slightly different emotion fuelling it. 

Mac wasn’t pretending at this point, not bothering to hold back. Nor was Dennis, for that matter. Mac, unashamedly, bit Dennis’ bottom lip, catching it gently between his teeth. Dennis breathed in a slightly more pronounced way - at which point, Mac released Dennis’ lip and kissed him again, before very quickly biting Dennis’ bottom lip again, harder. It stung, and Dennis gasped with a shocked chuckle, surprised at how suddenly Mac was getting more and more into this. Mac released his lip again, catching Dennis’ eye for a split second, before they both closed their eyes once more, and Mac licked Dennis’ bottom lip, where his teeth had just been.

It took everything in Dennis to not shudder a little, or moan. He didn’t want to look desperate or needy (he was), he needed to maintain at least a little bit of the Dennis-like illusion. It was slipping, though. It was slipping, fast.

Where Dennis thought Mac was going to kiss him again, he didn’t. Instead, whilst taking a shaky breath, Mac kissed Dennis’ jaw, and Dennis could feel the slightly rough skin of his lips drag against his skin. He moved down to the neck, the friction from Mac’s stubble making Dennis’ hair fucking stand upright. And he noticed their breathing, how they were both terrified, scared, God damn nervous.

Mac and Dennis had had many weirdly intimate moments in the past, but this was scary. This was scary as hell, but the churning in Dennis’ stomach and the feeling of Mac’s fluttering breath against the bottom of his neck made him feel something different, something new. 

It made him feel alive.

“Mac, dude,” Dennis tried to speak clearly, but found it amazingly difficult. Mac looked up, worried, confused, concerned.

“Den?”

“Listen I’m, I just-“

“If this is too much, Den, just say the word-“

“No, asshole! Well, not asshole, that was nice of y- that’s not the point! It’s not what I was saying,” Dennis fumbled over his words and felt his hands, that had been gesticulating wildly, fall to Mac’s back. “I was saying that I’m sorry. Okay?”

“D-“

“Mac, I swear to God, please just let me- I need to... I need to say this,” Dennis was almost frustrated. Not quite. Almost. Mac sat up, and Dennis felt his hands slip from his back, but before he could feel disappointed, Mac took each of Dennis’ hands in his. “I’m sorry about the shit that I’ve done to you. Like, all of it, not just yesterday. Fucking all of it. And... and I’m sorry, because if you wanna actually date me at some point, then first of all - do some serious self-reflection. And secondly, you need to understand that no amount of kissing and cuddles and love and- and banging, is gonna heal my rotten fucking brain.”

Mac didn’t look disappointed. He just looked attentive, understanding. A little bit sad, but not because he couldn’t help, more because Dennis was feeling like that at all in the first place.

“I wanted to say that,” Dennis looked away, somewhere unspecific over Mac's shoulder. “Now’s your chance to fuck off, if that’s what you want to do. We can go back to being best mates, and I’ll eventually get rid of my disgusting feelings for you, and we can just, go back to how it was. And it’ll be better for you.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re an idiot,” Mac chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m in love with an idiot, ladies and gentlemen! I mean, God damn, Dennis.”

“What?” Dennis snapped. Mac raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not gonna fuck off, we’ve covered this. If I wanted to be gone, I’d be fucking gone already. If I was gonna think to myself ‘hmm, maybe Dennis’ shitty mental health is gonna be too much for me to handle’, I would’ve never moved in with you when you finished college, I never would’ve stayed living with you for so long, I wouldn’t have let myself fall this hard for you, you know? Like, get real, bro,” Mac laughed, but not mockingly. He was comforting Dennis, if anything.

“I’ve not always been mentally ill.”

“Not always, no. But it’s been noticeable from when you were in college,” Mac said, to which Dennis grimaced. “Not a criticism, dude. And not many people twigged on, either. Probably just me and Dee. But my point is this - if you were going to have been too much to handle? Then we wouldn’t be making out, shirtless, in this motel room right now,” Mac looked at Dennis as his facial expression turned into one of acceptance. Confused acceptance. “This motel room, by the way? Gross.”

“God, tell me about it,” Dennis raised an eyebrow. 

“You had $200, why didn’t you go to a slightly less... unclean one?”

“I was gonna stay for a while,” Dennis shrugged. “The money would’ve got me longer here.”

“Don’t stay anywhere, bro. Just come back to Dee’s,” Mac suggested. Their fingers were still interlocked, so Mac squeezed Dennis’ hands, a dumb and obvious expression on his face. Dennis chewed his lip.

“I don’t know, man,” Dennis shrugged, palming off the conversation. “I don’t wanna talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to keep kissing you, asshole,” Dennis looked at Mac obviously, who’s lips turned up into a very Mac-like smile. 

“I want to keep kissing you, too,” Mac replied. “But this motel is fucking gross. So come back to Dee’s with me.”

“Oh yeah, and continue this in the same flat as my twin sister? Pass.”

“She’s not even home, she’s at the bar and then she’s going to Artemis’ tonight,” Mac pulled Dennis into a sitting position by his hands - Dennis sighed, but half-smiled when Mac draped his arms over his shoulders. 

“It’s still my sister’s flat, it would be weird.”

“So you’d rather bang in a filthy motel room that was cleaned maybe last decade?” Mac smirked, to which Dennis opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t, eyes a little wider. Instead of talking, he found himself laughing, a little flustered - the only word he could use describe what he was feeling. 

“Subtle, Mac,” Dennis pursed his lips to stop an amused smile. Mac’s smile widened; it was infectious, and Dennis noticed his tongue sticking through his teeth - it was fucking adorable. “But you’re right.”

“I always am.”

“Barely ever, dude, let’s be real.”

“You’re such a dick,” Mac cocked his head, biting his lip to prevent himself from smiling embarrassingly wide. They held eye contact for a little longer than usual, and Dennis felt warm. Dennis felt comfortable. Dennis felt his stomach squeezing as he watched Mac go from biting his lip to looking down, laughing, gently. So gently. 

Mac looked back up, cheeks flushed, smiling with a little more subtlety. He swallowed and his Adam’s Apple bobbed, and suddenly Dennis was fixating on Mac’s skin, the little movements he made, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the way his lips tweaked back into a loving grin when Dennis reciprocated the smile. 

For fucks sake.

Dennis didn’t hesitate in considering his actions - he leaned forward and in an instant, his lips were on Mac’s jaw, the coarse hairs of Mac’s stubble feeling comforting against his lips and the tip of his nose. Mac let out a pleasantly surprised chuckle.

“God damn, Den,” Mac said warmly, letting his hands that had been dangling over Dennis’ shoulders press firmly into the back of his neck. 

“Shut up,” Dennis tried to say seriously, but it just came out as comedic, amused. He dragged his bottom lip a little bit, kissing his was up the side of his jaw before moving his mouth to Mac’s ear, gently biting the lobe. Dennis swore Mac shuddered. That was enough for him.

Almost immediately, Dennis pulled back the littlest bit, and with a burst of keen enthusiasm, pushed Mac onto his back. The mattress wasn’t very big, so as Mac made contact with the bed, his head hung over the edge, a breath exhaling as his body bounced a little bit, springs creaking. He lifted his head and looked at Dennis with a confused, but impressed expression, mouth set in an amorous smirk.

Dennis shifted so he was comfortably sat atop Mac and leaned over him, knees either side of his hips, lowering his mouth to Mac’s neck, to the dip in his collarbone, down to his chest, the fine, almost invisible hairs upon his skin tickling Dennis’ tender lips. His hands rested on the side of Mac’s waist, and as Dennis ceased kissing him and tentatively teased the skin of his pec with the tip of his tongue, Mac found his hands flying to rest on Dennis, to touch Dennis. His grip on Dennis’ back tightened, although he remained silent, trying to steady his breathing. There was really no need - Dennis could hear his heart beat, pounding.

There were no illusions.

Mac’s lack of noise was a little disappointing, so Dennis let his hands move carefully in circles on Mac’s waist, lulling him into a sense of softness, before suddenly dragging his teeth against Mac’s weirdly soft skin. Mac inhaled sharply through his nose, fingers pressing into Dennis’ back. It took everything in Dennis to stop himself from smiling, feeling Mac’s desperate grip, hearing his shallow breathing.

For a moment, Dennis hesitated, rethinking an idea that had popped into his head. It would be very immature of him to do this. But at the same time, Dennis had never had the opportunity to be immature in this particular setting with Mac in the past. They missed out on the stupid teenage phases. And sure, they were both almost forty, but he wanted that stupid bit of excitement, and he knew that Mac would almost definitely feel the same.

Instead of gently holding his waist, Dennis scraped his nails down the skin and parted his lips, planting them barely an inch above Mac’s nipple, and sucked. Hard. Immediately, Mac let out a shocked gasp, mixed with a little grunt that he cut short as quickly as possible, and suddenly his breathing was more of a whistle - he was gritting his teeth. It’d been a while since Dennis had given somebody a good hickey and it was strangely exhilarating, listening to Mac desperately forcing himself to be as quiet as possible. It was amusing, and ridiculously sexy, if he was gonna he honest, especially as sitting atop Mac’s crotch was slowly becoming less and less... comfortable. It made him wonder - if Mac was finding it this hard to keep quiet from a simply hickey, how would he react to literally anything else? Dennis lifted his lips from Mac’s chest and admired an acceptably sized reddish-purplish bruise emerging. Pushing the boundaries of being immature and overtly sexual, he licked over the hickey, before biting down around it, gently of course. He didn’t want to hurt Mac - he just wanted to make Mac remind himself of Dennis when he looked in the mirror the next day. 

Mac exhaled a chuckle, trying not to squirm, which didn’t go unnoticed by Dennis. It only fuelled him, turned him on a stupid amount - he moved down a little, pausing a little, just listening to Mac’s ridiculously shallow breath.

Dennis knew Mac got turned on pretty easily. The amount of stupid boners he’d had over the years were very telling, and it always amused Dennis, gave him something to take the piss out of him for. But now, Dennis wasn’t complaining about how into this Mac was, how obvious his breathing was and the tiny, almost silent grunts from the back of his throat, and the glaringly evident elephant in the room - the growing bulge that Dennis was actually sitting atop. 

It was stupid, really, but Dennis didn’t care. He didn’t give a flying fuck.

So, he teasingly licked at Mac’s nipple, which didn’t earn much of a different reaction. That was, until, Dennis enclosed his mouth around it completely, teasing, sucking a tiny bit, bumping it with his teeth. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Den,” Mac said breathlessly. Dennis didn’t stop to respond, but instead, he very carefully closed his teeth around Mac’s nipple. That got what Dennis wanted - a small, but still obvious, moan. A whine, actually. The opposite of manly and badass, but Dennis fucking loved it. Mac’s hands instinctively moved down to hook around the belt loops of Dennis’ jeans, his pinky fingers still digging into Dennis’ bare skin. “Dennis, dude-“

Dennis looked up, lips parted, an immature and flustered smile on his face.

“Yeah, baby boy?”

Mac lifted his head from where it had been hanging over the edge of the bed, shaking his head in adoration at the nickname that hadn’t been used in over six years. 

“At Dee’s,” he managed to say, returning Dennis’ infectious smile. “I love this, fuckin’ trust me. But-“

“This room is an actual health hazard, yeah,” Dennis finished, kissing Mac’s chest gently, before admiring the hickey he’d given, which was slightly darker now than it was before. Not his best, but it could be worked on, Dennis was sure. “At Dee’s.”

Dennis pulled Mac into a sitting position and shifted back a little, risking to glance down. He looked up at Mac and raised an eyebrow.

“From a hickey?” Dennis challenged teasingly, to which Mac batted his arm.

“Shut your mouth, you can’t fucking talk,” Mac shot back with an even more annoyingly sexy expression. “I didn’t even get to do anything to you, bro. What’s your fuckin’ excuse?”

Dennis narrowed his eyes, before punching Mac’s shoulder in lieu of a response.

Mac punched Dennis’ shoulder back.

“I know that game, dude. Let’s not go there,” Mac shook his head. “Get up, come on. Let’s get out of this piece of shit motel.”

“Yep, and go to my twin sister’s piece of shit apartment,” Dennis rolled his eyes and clambered off of Mac’s lap, before standing up from the bed. He rolled his shoulders back and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in shock, if anything, at the encounter that had actually just taken place, in real life, in the real world. Dennis never needed to invent scenarios ever again - he could just remember this.

It was at that point that he realised he was not only exhaling in shock from the previous encounter, he was exhaling in shock for the one that was going to take place in the very, very near future. He felt his chest quiver, and he bit his lip. This was... real.

Dennis picked up Mac’s sleeveless t-shirt from the floor and chucked it over to him; he was still sitting on the bed, and had obviously been watching Dennis for that short moment. Mac caught the t-shirt and was about to put it on, before hesitating. He stood up from the bed, still topless.

“There’s a mirror in the bathroom, right?”

“Yeah, it’s crap though,” Dennis nodded, watching in confusion as Mac walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind him.

Dennis padded across the carpet, following Mac into the bathroom, watching him look in the mirror, but not at his face, at his chest.

Mac cracked a massive smile, before realising Dennis was stood behind him, shrugging. 

“Six out of ten,” Mac winked, as if to challenge Dennis, as if to say ‘do your worst, I dare you’.

“Hmm,” Dennis rolled his eyes. “I’ll work on it.”

Dennis walked out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, picking up his shirt and shrugging it on. Mac followed him in from the bathroom, pulling his tee on clumsily as he walked, and then getting surprised when he got caught in it. 

Dennis rolled his eyes. He was an idiot.

Mac managed to get his t-shirt on, and Dennis fastened the buttons on his shirt, before grabbing the stolen bottles of booze he’d forgotten about, the rest of the money (that had been sat atop a rickety bedside table) and his phone, that was discarded on the bed. He pocketed the money and his phone, before looking at Mac. He was about to say ‘I need to check out, I’ll see you in a minute’, before faltering, suddenly interrupted with a question he’d forgot to address earlier.

“How did you know I was here?” Dennis asked curiously.

“Oh, yeah,” Mac chuckled. “It was the first place I thought to check. I figured if your car was in the parking lot, I’d ask at reception if you’d checked in - no Dennis Reynolds, but there was a Brian le Fevre. Seriously dude, you need to be more imaginative with your fake name.”

“I think that one’s pretty good,” Dennis shrugged. “I have a history with that name.”

“Yeah, which is exactly why it’s a terrible idea to use it when you don’t want people to find you,” Mac threw back. “Dumbass.”

Dennis loved it when Mac called him stupid names. Dumbass, idiot, bozo...

Den. It made him smile like a fucking fourteen year old.

He opened the door of the motel and walked out, waiting for Mac to follow him before closing the door.

“Wait by my car, I’ll be there in a minute,” Dennis handed the bottles of booze to Mac so he wasn’t asked questions when he checked out. “And then we can... go.”

Mac looked at Dennis, who was looking at the floor, but not awkwardly as such. It was simply overwhelming - the situation, the past situation, the future situation. It was a lot.

Neither of them minded.

Not at all.

“Then we can go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m leaving this chapter at that because i’m cruel


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for suicide mention  
> intense processing of past rape/csa, but no description of the actual event  
> just like a total deterioration, this is ur warning

The car drive back to Dee’s was short, and full of tension. Short, because Dennis was undeniably breaking the speed limit, and full of tension, because of course it was.

It was bittersweet though, at least for Dennis. He felt content, but he knew himself well enough at this point to admit that after feeling this okay and this comfortable, he’d crash and burn, like an angel falling from grace mistaken for a shooting star. 

He didn’t dwell much on this.

Dennis had turned on the radio, hoping for something nice, perhaps with a little ambience, to come on the radio.

Katy Perry started playing, and Dennis rolled his eyes. He went to turn it off, before Mac slapped his hand away.

“What are you doing?” Mac asked with an incredulous laugh. “This song is so good.”

“Mac,” Dennis deadpanned. “Katy Perry, dude.”

“Just listen,” Mac encouraged, turning up the volume a couple of notches.

The music grated on Dennis’ ears, and he was surprised that it didn’t have the same effect on Mac. So he listened to the lyrics.

‘You think I'm pretty,  
Without any make-up on,  
You think I'm funny,  
When I tell the punchline wrong,  
I know you get me,  
So I let my walls come down, down’

Dennis couldn’t help but smile. He didn’t say anything to Mac, but caught his eye with a look as if to say ‘that’s gay, bro’.

They parked outside the block of apartments, and where they’d usually share a brief conversation for leaving the car, they didn’t today. The engine turned off and they were immediately out of the car and heading into the building.

The lift was broken, so they hurried up the stairs, one behind the other, although Mac held his hand behind his back, Dennis hooking his pinky finger around Mac’s. By the time they’d reached the top of the stairs, they were both a little out of breath, Dennis admittedly a little more than Mac.

And so, they walked with an embarrassing amount of urgency down the corridor, forcing themselves to not run and settling for a ridiculous half-walk half-jog, before reaching Dee’s flat. 

Mac had a key, for some reason, and went to unlock the door before finding it was unlocked. Dee was an idiot.

They entered the flat, fingers still linked. 

“Dee?” Mac called out, walking into the flat. Dennis closed the door behind him. “Big Bird? Stupid bitch? You here?”

Silence.

“She’s with Artemis, right?” Dennis said.

“Oh, yeah, apparently,” Mac nodded, walking into the lounge area. Dennis followed. “I don’t think she actually is, and she’s just telling us that because she’s actually banging some low brow dude, too embarrassed to tell us. But yeah, she’s out. Just thought I’d double check.”

“Good,” Dennis said, turning around to face away from Mac, glancing all the way around the flat before nodding. “Good- oh! Hi.”

Mac had grabbed Dennis from behind, wrapping his arms around his waist and connecting at the front of Dennis’ abdomen. Dennis smiled, feeling Mac’s breath on his shoulder through his shirt.

“Dennis,” Mac mumbled.

“Mm?” 

“Everything’s gonna be alright, you know,” he said gently, kindly. Dennis should’ve been moved by these words, they should’ve made him feel warm, feel safe.

He didn’t feel warm. 

He didn’t feel safe.

_‘Everything’s going to be alright, Dennis’_

He felt sick, physically fucking sick, and his legs suddenly felt weak.

A few seconds passed, and Mac realised that Dennis had frozen solid. He could feel Dennis breathing stop, could hear his jaw clench from the vibrating of his teeth.

Mac took his hands from around his waist and turned him round by the shoulders, so they were facing each other. Mac felt his stomach plummet as he saw Dennis facial expression. It was not one he’d seen many times in knowing Dennis, but when he had seen it, he knew that something was deeply, deeply wrong.

It was a facial expression that harboured detached eyes that somehow watered, welled up, nonetheless. It was his lips sucked in, the area around them trembling. It was his nostrils flared, it was his pronounced jaw indicating that it was clenched, hard, and it was his eyebrows, knotted in a dangerous frown that could be mistaken for anger, if the rest of his face wasn’t taken into account.

“Den?” Mac was immediately concerned, obviously. 

Dennis didn’t want to be around anybody, least of all Mac. He didn’t want Mac to see him like this. He knew the thoughts that were going to possess his mind, and having Mac coddling him whilst he was having a breakdown about shit that happened to him, he was either going to get angry or talk about his stupid fucking feelings. 

He needed to be alone.

Mac squeezed Dennis’ shoulder, and Dennis flinched away instinctively, staring at the floor so he didn’t have to look at Mac's expression. It would tear him apart. 

So Dennis, squeezing his shoulders into his neck and shoving his hands deep into his jean pockets, stepped back from Mac and walked to the sofa, sitting down, and remained silent and motionless.

Mac obviously had no idea what the fuck to do, and Dennis felt bad, because he himself, had no idea what the fuck to do, either.

At least a minute of dead silence passed, when Mac sat down on the sofa beside him, leaving a respectful amount of space between the two of them. 

“You can trust me, Dennis,” Mac said, quietly, solemnly, uncertain about whether he was saying the right thing.

He wasn’t.

_‘You trust me, don’t you baby? You can trust me, can’t you?’_

“Dennis-“

“Shut up,” Dennis snapped, squeezing his eyes closed, only now noticing that his hands had tightened into fists, and he’d been squeezing so hard, the palm of his hand ached from where his nails had assailed the sensitive skin. “Shut up.”

He felt a litany of things in that moment, too many things all at once. Anger, fear, impurity, despair, resentment. They were attacking his brain from every angle, and Dennis had absolutely, totally, no way of making it stop. 

He missed the way he was a couple of weeks before that moment, where his emotions were hardly there, and he could control, albeit in an unhealthy way, but still control when he needed it, or wanted it.

This was totally unneeded and unwanted.

_‘You’re golden to me, Dennis. Not like the other kids, they’re all horrible. Especially to you. You’re better than them, Dennis’_

His body physically hurt. He was in a tremendous amount of pain, feeling his insides rot away and break apart. It started in his chest, his lungs eroding - maybe that’s why he was suddenly so breathless. Then it was his stomach, a stabbing pain right in the fucking gut. He doubled over, clutching his stomach. 

“Fuck you,” Dennis spat, wheezing. He wasn't crying, no - he was suffocating. He was losing all the air from his body. He was underwater. 

He was drowning, but it wasn’t his imagination this time.

“What have I done?” Mac asked, and Dennis could hear the confused, heartbroken, clueless upset in his voice.

_‘It’s okay, though. You don’t need the others when you’ve got me!’_

“Go away,” Dennis gasped, and Jesus Christ, he could barely take a breath. He gripped at his chest, fingers clawing at his shirt as he felt his ribs collapse in on themselves. 

“You sure?”

Dennis was almost writhing, hunched over so far, his head was practically between his legs, that at this point, were bouncing up and down at an alarming rate. It hurt so much. He struggled for words, catching breath when his body allowed it, before being plunged head first into the dirty water of the fountain again.

Whoever was holding the collar of his shirt pulled his head up, and he took a few desperate breaths, choking out a response.

“Not you, a... asshole,” he clutched his head.

Dennis was fucking mortified by this, by the fact that this meltdown, this process, happened that day. He’d finally got what he’d always wanted, and she’d fucking ruined it.

She fucking ruined everything.

She fucking ruined him.

His breathing suddenly caught up with him. The unidentifiable person gripping the back of his neck, plunging him under water, had gone, and Dennis was free to breathe.

He clutched at his neck and the collar of his shirt and his body replenished the oxygen in his body. He sounded as if he’d just finished a marathon, but had sprinted for the whole 15 km. He was overheating, sweating, dirty. 

He may have been dirty, but he was never taking a bath again.

Mac stood up from the sofa, but Dennis didn’t look up. That’s all he needed to confirm that he was, in fact, tainted. So much so, he couldn’t even have comfort from the man who was supposedly in love with him.

He was too far gone she’d pushed him there he was too far gone he was irredeemable he was unlovable he was too far gone she’d pushed him there. 

Dennis was trying desperately to calm himself down as his breath began to regulate, although by no means was it at a normal rate, rocking himself backwards and forwards, hands cemented to his head, his hands now gripping the locks so hard, he could feel a few strands snap in his fingers. And even though he was making a massively conscious effort to breathe normally, starting to regain control of his physical reaction, he had absolutely no control over what’s going on in his head, and the tidal wave of emotions that Dennis could feel approaching - fast.

This unsettled him a little, because his body and brain had gone through enough turmoil so suddenly and painfully, he didn’t have the energy levels for this to smack him in the face. But like a lump rising in his throat, the tidal wave approached the shore. 

Approaching, approaching.

Closer, closer.

_‘Come closer’_

At the point that Dennis had just assumed that Mac had up and left completely, he heard feet approaching him, quickly.

A wall of water, full of disgusting, dirty debris, looming taller and taller over Dennis, threatening to wreak destruction at any second.

An unexpected hand rested firmly atop Dennis’ clenched fist of hair, causing Dennis to gasp in shock, and if he was going to be honest, in fear. His whole body jerked back, throwing himself back from the foetal position he’d been in to a more exposed way of sitting, although his limbs naturally curled in.

Dennis also realised that at that point, his eyes were squeezed very tightly closed. So when he felt a firmer, but caring grip on his now unclenched fist, he was just as surprised, flinching again. This time, the hand held on, prising apart Dennis’ fingers before placing what felt like a cup in his palm.

The hand didn’t let go, though, steadying Dennis’ grip on the cup.

“Drink,” Mac said firmly, but comfortingly.

“Whiskey?”

“No, asshole, water,” Mac was still holding onto Dennis’ hand and the cup. 

“Fuck off.”

The tsunami crashed to land, and it was the beginning of the end.

Dennis had a surge of strength and as he snapped open his eyes, yanked his hand out of Mac’s, water sloshing over the sides of the cup, before hurling it mercilessly against the wall, where it smashed into shards. 

He watched the water drip down the wall, at the fragmented bits of glass strewn across the carpet. 

His legs were bouncing again, but at an alarming rate. It pained the muscles in his leg as he was whisked up in a whirlpool of tainted ocean, the salt water only aggravating his wounds, both literally and figuratively.

Mac sat down, and although he was briefly shocked, he wasn’t surprised, per say, at Dennis’ reaction. It could’ve been much worse, and Mac would know - he’d seen much worse reactions from Dennis in the past. Throwing a glass of water across the room was only brushing the surface of his instability.

Dennis’ hands were shaking, but his legs had stopped bouncing. He was very suddenly, very dangerously, still and seemingly calm.

“What’s going on, bro?” Mac asked, touching his arm. Dennis jerked his arm away and stood up from the sofa, wordlessly. “Dennis?-“

“ **Shut up!** “ Dennis yelled, viscously. “Just shut the fuck up, Jesus Christ!”

Mac was stunned. Pinching his forehead, trying to figure out why Dennis was reacting like this, he exhaled.

“What have I done-“

“Shut up.”

Mac clenched his fists.

“No, you shut up. Listen to me,” Mac said firmly, and started talking, but Dennis had tuned out.

_‘Shh Dennis, shut up, you’ve got to be quiet’_

Mac’s words were white noise as Dennis’ soul shrivelled in his chest. He was standing on weak knees, and at this point, it was taking everything in him to keep standing, keep stable, keep normal.

_‘Listen to me, sweetheart, okay? Just listen to me’_

Mac was saying something in a worried voice when Dennis felt tears prick his eyes. His hands flew to his face, pressing his palms over his sockets as if to create a physical barrier, to stop the tears from falling down his face. He’d cried enough in the last two weeks to last more than a lifetime, and in front of Mac was even worse.

Thinking this didn’t help. He wasn’t crying just because of her now, he was crying because Mac had watched him crack at the seams, and now he was present for the fucking grand finale. He was crying for himself, at how weak and pitiful and stupid he’d been - so much so, his arm was carved up like a turkey, his stubble was starting to grow, he’d gone to see a therapist, his eye bags were puffy and red, and he wanted to die. 

He wanted to die, and he wanted to do it himself, and that was a thought that had appeared rapidly and loudly in a matter of days. Had he lost so much control that he couldn't even function as _the_ Dennis Reynolds? He couldn’t even fuck the man he was in love with, who he had an insane amount of unresolved tension with, without having a catastrophic revelation about his shitty fucking childhood? Could it not have fucking waited? Could his brain not have chilled the fuck out before processing trauma? 

If he could take his brain out and replace it with a different one, he would. But he couldn’t, and at this point, after losing so much control so fucking quickly because his brain dictated it, he realised he couldn’t fucking survive another day like this.

The tsunami had swept him up. Bricks from houses, trunks of trees, cars and lampposts - they were assailing his body, breaking each bone, one at a time. He was dying.

He was fucking dying.

It was then, Dennis Reynolds broke. The Golden God fell from grace, plummeting from heaven into the middle of the fucking ocean. He crashed and burned and blundered til he was nothing more than shards strewn across Earth, like a glass of water, smashing against a badly wallpapered wall.

An inhuman noise came from the back of his throat, like a wail and a guttural groan of absolute agony at once. His knees buckled, legs suddenly fluid, bones dissipated into a mass of water. His body fell into a crouching position before falling to the floor, back hitting the wall. 

“Fuck,” he wheezed. “Fuck-ck,” and then he was sobbing, and the tears were unforgiving, and they flooded his face, they flooded his body, they flooded the soul that was withering, shrivelling, decaying with every single breath he took. His core, his very being, was crumbling.

And Mac was watching it happen.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” It would’ve been a scream if his sobs hadn’t strangulated his words. His head was resting against the wall, and he let himself fucking grieve for the Dennis Reynolds that was dead, and would probably never return again. His crying was loud, it was ugly, it cold and it was broken. 

He felt Mac sit on the floor beside him and didn’t need to look at him to see the panic in his eyes.

Dennis was scratching at his forehead, dragging his fingernails down his face in desperation - to do what he didn’t know. And then he was silent, for a moment, and his eyes opened to look at the ceiling, his brain giving him time to think.

And he was hoping that with this bit of respite, his brain would choose to comfort him, or rationalise things. It didn’t.

_‘I figured this art opening would be the perfect place to premiere my directorial debut’_

_‘We had a good time, she and I. It was a two-way road. The whole thing was... mutual’_

His lip wobbled, and suddenly the ceiling wasn’t the ceiling anymore, it way the sky, the clouds, getting further and further away, darkening, rumbling into a storm. His body was falling through an unending mass of nothingness. It was empty.

He blinked, and the ceiling was there again, but not clear through the tears clouding his vision. He squeezed his eyes closed and his face tensed and scrunched and a pathetic wail came from his throat.

“Dennis.”

Dennis didn’t flinch, didn’t stop anything. But hearing his name come from such concerned lips shot an arrow through his fucking gut. The fingers that had been on his forehead gripped his hair, tight, and it hurt. God, it hurt so much - fuck, everything hurt so much, so fucking much.

Through gritted teeth, he screamed. It was strangled and miserable and desperate and pained. It was loud, and as his fingers gripped harder and strands of hair started to snap, his teeth unclenched, and his scream was no longer miserable or desperate. It was visceral and raw. It was the remnants of his soul taking one final breath and telling the world exactly what it fucking thought of it.

He felt Mac shift from sitting beside him to kneeling in front of his, uncertainly positioned between Dennis’ feet. He felt Mac take hold of his hands and gently removed them from his hair, and held them, squeezed them, in front of Dennis’ chest.

Dennis choked on a sob, and his whole body wobbled, teetered on the plain of reality itself. 

He was slipping.

“Fuck,” he quivered and his head flopped forwards from the wall til it was hanging down, and his neck was turning it from one side to another. “Fuck her.”

Mac didn’t ask who ‘her’ was. He had learned from the last ten minutes that interrupting Dennis right now, with questions he didn’t want to answer, was a catastrophic idea.

“Fuck her,” Mac whispered, and immediately felt Dennis’ hands clench around his, sweating and trembling fingers gripping onto Mac's hands for dear fucking life. 

“She fucking destroyed me, Mac,” Dennis gasped, chewing his trembling lip, before looking up at Mac through open eyes.

He looked confused, concerned, but as calm as he could be. He was asking Dennis wordlessly, through the way his eyes begged, to tell him what was going on. Who destroyed you, Dennis? Who is she?

“Fucking Ms Klinsky, dude,” Dennis felt mortified as the words escaped his lips, and the eye contact that had been briefly held dissipated as Dennis looked away, at anything else.

Mac felt his stomach twist.

Oh. 

He could’ve reacted in a number of ways. He could’ve punched a wall, he could’ve burst into tears, he could’ve fucking screamed along with Dennis. But he did none of those things. 

Because for once in his life, he was going to stop. He was going to think, and process his words, and try and do the right. 

“Fuck Ms Klinsky,” he said quietly.

“I thought it was normal, can you fucking believe,” Dennis croaked. “It wasn’t, I don’t think.”

“It wasn’t.”

“And here I am, 25 years later, tearing myself the fuck apart like a weakling,” he pursed his lips and swallowed a lump in his throat, biting his lip and looking around the room desperately, breathing a little laboured. 

“You’re not weak, asshole,” Mac said firmly, kindly, purposely peppering in the way he usually spoke in an attempt to make Dennis feel safe. Dennis caught a glance of Mac, meeting his gaze, and spluttered pathetically. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“Okay, no it’s not. What happened isn’t okay. The way it’s fucked you up this bad isn't God damn okay. None of this situation is okay, because it’s tearing you apart,” Mac said, and although he was trying to remain sensible and calm, the voice of reason, the immense emotional reaction in his chest and in his mind was making it hard to deal with this in a non-Mac way. “I’ll fucking kill her for it. But right now, I’m with you, Den. And, and I...” Mac swallowed and shook his head, looking down. “I meant that it’s okay, in the sense that like, it’s okay for you to feel like this. It’s okay for you to feel, period.”

Dennis let go of Mac’s hands, and before Mac could even wonder why he’d done that, Dennis collapsed into Mac. His forehead collided with Mac’s chest and his feeble hands gripped Mac’s elbows. He was crying still, Mac assumed, but it wasn’t one that scared Mac, or made him panic. It was a cry that broke Mac’s heart.

Dennis shuddered against Mac, the top of his head pressed firmly into the centre of Mac’s chest, and Mac could feel from Dennis, so vividly and painfully, that he’d given up. 

Dennis had given up.

Mac held Dennis, hands upon the small of his back, and bit his lip, hard. It took every ounce of his being to not cry as he watched Dennis snap in two. He managed to stop himself by closing by squeezing his eyes closed, trying to blot out the image of Dennis falling to his knees.

He didn’t know how long they stayed there for, but he knew that when they arrived back at Dee’s, the sun was only just beginning to set. It was pitch black outside, now.

Dennis had moved position slowly over the last few minutes, hours, however long it had been, so his face was in Mac’s neck and his arms were loosely around him. They’d been motionless for a while, until Dennis shifted turning his head so he could look around the flat, as much as his limited visuals could allow. 

Mac noticed Dennis move.

“How are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Dennis tried to speak clearly, but his throat was raw and dry, so it came out as a croak. He’d normally be embarrassed by such a betrayal of his body, but he didn’t care. It paled in comparison to the rest of that evening.

“Do you want to go to sleep?”

“No.”

“Okay-“

“I need to go somewhere,” Dennis said quietly. “Now, ideally.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Obviously,” Dennis swallowed, and although those words would supposedly be followed by him prising himself away from Mac, he didn’t move a muscle.

“Where?” asked Mac, who stroked Dennis’ back with his thumb, gently. 

“The Swann fountain,” said Dennis.

“Gonna make a wish? Throw in a penny?”

“Don’t be an idiot, man,” Dennis sighed, his voice mumbling a little now. “Being there cheers me up.”

This was a lie of various different levels.

Firstly, saying that made it sound like he went there frequently - he did not, and had been once during this weird period. Secondly, he knew that it wouldn’t cheer him up. It would have the complete opposite effect - make him worse. Dennis knew that.

He wanted to go because he needed to solidify his plans. He wanted to go because he needed to feel that emotional release, the control he had over his body in the water. He could sit there, he could lay there, he could drown there. It was shallow, but deep enough for any of that. 

He needed to feel that control just once more.

“Okay,” said Mac simply, any confusion that he may have been feeling masked, masterfully.

Dennis forced himself from Mac. Forced - because he really didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want Mac to let him go, and he almost wanted Mac to realise at some point that evening what was going through Dennis’ mind.

He wanted Mac to hold him tight. So tight, that the wind would escape his lungs but would somehow still be able to breathe. So tight, that he could feel Mac’s muscles tensing around his body, feel Mac’s stomach against his back. So tight, that Dennis felt dragged down to Earth and grounded. 

Mac, as well-meaning as he was to Dennis, was an idiot. Because the only way Mac would hold him like that would be if Dennis asked him to, or was totally open and honest about how catastrophic his brain was. And even then, Mac probably wouldn’t, because he was obviously tentative and scared about crossing lines with Dennis. He respected boundaries that weren’t even there.

It pissed Dennis off, at the same time as filling his heart. 

So Dennis pulled himself away from Mac and stood up, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, feeling unstable, in the physical way that time. His legs were weak and he felt a bit faint, and vocalised this to Mac.

“When was the last time you ate, Den?” Mac asked, standing up from the floor and walking swiftly over to Dennis, grabbing his hand and leading him into the kitchen.

“I don’t really remember,” Dennis frowned, suddenly realising that his blood sugar was probably low and that he had genuinely forgotten to eat. “Not since yesterday morning I don’t think.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Mac sighed, releasing Dennis’ hand and looking through Dee’s cupboards. He rifled through bags of pasta and rice, before finding a box of breakfast bars, throwing one in Dennis’ direction. “Eat.”

Dennis wasn’t going to argue. It was his favourite brand and had white chocolate chips amongst puffed rice, and as much as he felt like eating was kind of pointless, he was hungry. So he opened it and picked off a chocolate chip, putting it on his tongue, closing his mouth. Letting it melt. It was sweet, and comforting. It was nice.

Mac eyed him subtly as he put the pantry stuff back in the cupboard, only tearing his eyes away when he saw Dennis take a bite; a bite that was bigger than Mac was expecting. He looked normal, like a normal dude eating a cereal bar for a snack - that was, if you could ignore the discoloured skin and the bloodshot eyes and the unkept hair and the weedy body and the shaking hands. Mac chewed the inside of his lip, closing the cupboards, before looking around the kitchen, eyes landing on the fruit bowl.

Without even asking if Dennis was still hungry, Mac picked up the nicest looking apple from the bowl and got a knife out of the drawer, peeling the skin off it. Dennis watched him as he finished the cereal bar, chewing slowly to savour the last, sweet mouthful. He wasn’t opposed to a skinless apple, although he would prefer another cereal bar - skinless apples peeled by Mac felt sentimental to Dennis.

Mac didn’t just peel the apple, but cut it into segments and removed the core, putting them on a small plate and handing it to Dennis. 

“No core either, so you don’t swallow the seeds.”

Dennis frowned, but not because he didn’t like the gesture, like the apple, like Mac. He frowned because standing with Mac in Dee’s kitchen, being reminded of times from half a decade before, where they thought something was wrong or something was hard, when they were just being petty and stupid and just... Mac and Dennis.

Dennis wished it could be like that again. 

Because this wasn’t Dennis, and that wasn’t Mac.

Dennis was supposed to be confident, suave, in control. Mac was supposed to be irritable, tough, stupid. But in that moment, neither of them were like that. Dennis was insecure and awkward and so brutally out of control he couldn’t see past the next day. Mac was gentle and soft and weirdly knowledgable, which sure, is probably what Dennis needed in that moment, but it’s not what Dennis wanted.

He wanted to turn the clock back six years, to when they were sitting across the table from each other. To when they threw glasses of water at each other, before realising that God, they needed each other. They wanted each other, as well. And they made up - the Dynamic Duo, back in effect. He wanted to turn the clock back six years to when Dennis looked healthy, and slim, and tousled and energetic. To when Mac was full of a lust for life, filming stupid videos and getting rip shit on a crate of beer, when he was more extreme which only made his sincere moments all the more special.

Not that this wasn’t special. This was special, Mac was special, but it was different.

This was a special type of somber, of quiet, of sadness. Dennis wanted it to be a special type of energy, of yearning, of innocence.

God, he was never satisfied, was he?

He took the plate after a moment, his nose twitching. Mac smiled at him, watched him pick up a slice and crunch down on it, licking his chapped lips as the juice from the apple dripped a little.

Mac looked away, in sadness, if anything. The sight of Dennis licking his lips of fruit juice should not have broke Mac’s heart - it should’ve turned him on. And it probably would have done if they were in a different situation. If Dennis wasn’t on the brink of losing his mind, and eating for the first time in at least a day and a half, maybe more, and if Dennis wasn’t amidst processing a devastating childhood trauma? Yeah. Mac wouldn’t have been able to hold it together. He would’ve grabbed the plate and put it on the counter, and kiss Dennis with all of his fucking soul, he would’ve tasted the apple on his lips and it would’ve been amazing. 

But Dennis was on the brink of losing his mind, and he was eating for the first time in days, and he was admits processing a devastating childhood trauma. That was real, so as he saw Dennis lick his lips that were cracked and red raw, he felt his heart break into millions of pieces.

Because honestly, Mac was scared. He was absolutely terrified - if the night before, Dennis had told Charlie he wanted to die? Which was before remembering Ms Klinsky? Mac couldn’t bare to think what Dennis was feeling in that moment.

He’d never looked worse, although Mac still thought he was beautiful. And it hurt. It hurt so fucking much that actually? There was nothing that Mac could do. And as each day passed, Dennis got thinner, and his stubble grew more, and his eye bags looked more and more like black eyes, and his hair - oh God, his hair...

Mac was looking over Dennis from across the kitchen, where he’d walked to give Dennis space to eat, and his eyes fell to his hair, his fringe, and remembered that earlier that evening, Dennis had gripped his locks with his fists. Obviously, it had been hard - there were very small, but noticeable areas where his hair was a bit shorter, or ripped completely. 

He really had never looked worse.

Mac swallowed a lump in his throat and walked out of the kitchen, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his navy trousers to mask how hard his hands were clenched into fists, shaking, to try and distract himself from tears and wanted to develop. He walked round the corner and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and exhaling an embarrassingly shaky breath. The eminent tears were delayed, and he reopened his eyes, looking around the room. To the smashed glass on the floor, to the water stain on the wall, to the bit of carpet by the wall where Dennis and Mac had sat as Dennis fell apart.

And it sounded awful, but Mac was exhausted. He was absolutely exhausted. And yeah, he loved Dennis to pieces - God, more than anything in the fucking world. But it had been a long day, and all he really wanted to do was fall asleep. In his own room. At their apartment. That had burned down.

It’s not like he could even fall asleep there, in Dee’s apartment. Dennis needed to go to the fountain, so Mac was going to take him to the fountain, and that was that.

He shook himself off and blinked, before walking back into the kitchen, where Dennis was placing the empty plate in the sink.

“You wanna go?” Mac asked quietly.

“Mm,” Dennis nodded. They didn’t need to put their shoes on, because they’d never taken them off. So Mac shrugged on a hoodie, Dennis didn’t bother, and they walked out of the apartment. Mac made sure to lock it, and they walked down the stairs together.

It was morbid. When they’d walked up the stairs earlier that day, they were excited. Their fingers were intertwined and they were keen and content. Now, their pace was sluggish, and the silence was deafening. Mac didn’t know what to say, and Dennis didn’t want to say anything at all. It seemed like an omen, to Mac, but he pushed it down to the depths of his brain and shoved it in a cave and left it in there, pushing a boulder before the cave opening and walking away. Running away. Never looking the fuck back.

“I’m driving today,” Mac said as they exited the building, walking out onto the dark street that was partially illuminated by artificial, flickering streetlights. Mac was stood in the shadow, looking at Dennis who was stood under a beam, landing on his features with yellow light. It made him look jaundiced, ill, dead. But he was lit up amongst the dark of the rest of the street, and it was haunting but it gave Mac the feeling that Dennis, that day, had done one of two things: ascended or descended. Either way, he certainly wasn’t present on a mortal level, and Mac could see that. He could see it as clear as day. Dennis frowned at Mac, the light flickering as his deadpan expression turned into one of more emotion. Mac felt it in his stomach, something flipping up and down and forth and back. He felt sick, so he took Dennis’ hand and pulled him out of the light. “Don’t look at me like that dude. If you drive right now, you’ll crash in less than five minutes and I’m not about to see you die in these fucking circumstances. Okay?” 

“Whatever,” Dennis mumbled, half-amused and half-destroyed by Mac’s ignorance about whether he controlled whether or not Dennis was gonna die in ‘these fucking circumstances’, simply because Dennis was gonna die in these circumstances. Not in the car, not where they were going. He didn’t know where, or when. But it was going to happen. And once they’d made their trip this evening, Dennis knew he’d be solidified in this decision.

Mac was an idiot. 

They both got in the car, and sat in silence for a couple of seconds.

“So-”

“Swann Memorial fountain,” Dennis interrupted quietly, looking out of the window. His head was full and empty at the same time.

“I know...” Mac said quietly, chewing his lip. “Why-“

“Don’t,” Dennis closed his eyes and spoke quietly, tiredly. “Can we please just... just go?”

Mac nodded, although Dennis wasn’t looking in his direction. He would’ve asked Dennis where the best place was to park to get there, or how long he wanted to stay, or what he wanted to do there, but he knew that Dennis wouldn't answer those questions. Mac wasn’t even certain that Dennis knew the answers.

Dennis did. But Mac didn’t know this, so he turned on the engine and began to drive.

The radio automatically turned on. It was playing ‘I Know It’s Over’ by The Smiths. Mac felt a pain in his chest, and glanced over to Dennis, whose face was contorted into one of agony, from the little Mac could see. 

He couldn’t tell is Dennis was crying or not, but didn’t say anything. The rest of the journey was silent.

***

Dennis hadn’t spoken. Not in the car, not getting out of the car, not on the walk to the fountain, not when he and Mac approached the edge of the water. Mac had been talking intermittently, only to be ignored. If he was pissed off about it, he was doing a good job at hiding it. They walked towards the fountain, getting closer and closer.

Dennis’ vision was blurred, like looking through a camera lens. The only thing in focus was the fountain, and suddenly it looked divine - the sculptures spouting water and lighting the reflections in fragments, lucid and fluid. Non-linear. Non-permanent. 

“What did you want to do here, Dennis?” Mac asked, and Dennis could hear the voice but it was echoing and muffled, like Mac was standing outside a cave and calling in, and Dennis was sat at the back, weak and disheveled, hardly able to process a word Mac was saying. 

Dennis didn’t respond, because words had escaped him completely. They didn’t comprehend in his mind, not a single phrase passing through his head let alone through his lips. He simply stepped over the edge of the fountain and into the water, shoes still on. And he stood, waiting for Mac to join him in the purity.

The water was still. It was too still - it didn’t ripple as Dennis stepped in, or moved his legs. It was eerily motionless, like Dennis had control over the water and it’s form. He frowned, but did not process it or question it. He simply noticed. He perceived. He judged.

He heard Mac step into the water beside him, and knew it was him because he felt his hand be taken in another’s, and God damn, Dennis would recognise those hands anywhere. It was an anchor, of sorts, for Dennis. Keeping him on Earth, stopping him from floating somewhere, anywhere. 

Dennis walked forwards a couple of steps, before sitting down without a moments hesitation. And as his body was submerged by water, he could feel the dirt seep from his clothes, from his body, from his soul. The muddy water that his clothes had soaked from the tsunami, the wounds inflicted by the lampposts and the tree trunks and the cars, the tainted part of his soul, which he soon discovered was just his soul. He watched it all merge with the crystal clear liquid and disperse, and and the water around him got clearer, he felt less and less human and more and more ascended.

Mac sat down beside him, and he hadn’t let go of Dennis’ hand. He just watched Dennis, watched his body and face that were alarmingly still.

Until the water was clear, and Dennis was empty. 

That’s when Dennis became Dennis again, but a new Dennis now, rebuilt from a speck of his soul that hadn't been tainted and had stayed within him. It was multiplying, growing, and it screamed at Dennis. It screamed words, and suddenly Dennis couldn’t hear the sloshing water of the fountain or the distant passing cars. He was engulfed into his own psyche, like lucid dreaming, walking through the neurons in his brain.

It was dark, but bright white lights were flashing intermittently, illuminating Dennis every few seconds. He looked down at his hands, his arms, to see that he was naked. He could see the wounds on his arm, he could see the bruises from the tsunami, he could see the broken bones and uneven skin and the dirt clinging to his skin.

Maybe, the speck of his soul that was left was the tainted part. Maybe, the water washed away the good parts of him and now he was left with this, this, this... This void.

He didn’t know who was speaking to him. It was a British accent, though. It wasn’t comforting, no, it was sinister. But it sounded awfully familiar.

“If you were a God, if you’d really been one and you’d been here, you never would’ve died. But you’re dead - you’re fucking dead.”

Dennis frowned. Mac noticed the sudden change in facial expression, and squeezed his hand harder, but Dennis didn’t register any sign of acknowledging it or even knowing that Mac had done it.

“Frown all you like, it’s true. The Dennis you used to be is gone, and now you’re left with this. A broken body, a broken soul, and a broken fucking mind.”

Dennis kept walking through, well, wherever he was. The lights started flashing less frequently. His legs wobbled.

Mac was watching Dennis intently, and not even ten seconds after he’d began to frown, tears fell from his eyes. And he wasn’t trying to stop them, or blink them away, or anything. They just fell down his face, like he wasn’t there but he was all at once. Mac looked away, and felt a lump in his throat. Seeing Dennis like this destroyed Mac. It absolutely destroyed him.

“Come and see, Dennis. Come and see what your corpse is going to look like.”

It went pitch black, and Dennis blinked. He opened his eyes, and suddenly, the water fountain was gushing and he felt himself submerged and he could feel Mac’s hand gripping his with an alarming grip. He could feel tears falling from his face, so he looked around. 

Nothing was blurred. Everything was clear, crystal clear. 

He didn’t like it.

Dennis caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water, illuminated by the fountain lights, and saw chunks of his hair missing, and eye bags that looked like he’d been punched, and bitten lips and sunken cheeks. He stared and stared and stared and stared until it was too much.

Dennis wept.

And he could hear a cacophony in his head, of nonsensical thoughts. Dennis loved the old Dennis. Dennis mourned the old Dennis. Dennis wasn’t Dennis anymore. Dennis was [redacted] because Dennis was gone and there was merely a broken mirror image of who he used to be. [redacted] was a compilation of every strong and conflicting emotion Dennis had ever had. [redacted] knew that he loved Mac. Knew that Mac was an idiot. Knew that Mac really wasn’t the most relevant thing right now. Knew that he hated Ms Klinsky. Knew that he hated life. Knew that he hated living. Knew what he was going to do.

“I love you so much,” [redacted] spluttered as he wept, tears submerging with the water surrounding him. [redacted] didn’t want to say anything else, ever again. He wanted that to be his last - not because Mac was the be all and end all of [redacted]’s life, or Dennis’ life, but because he owed Mac that much. He owed him so much, but this was all he could give. “I fucking love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you ~~I love you I love you I love you Í ł ø v ē ŷ ø ü~~ -“

“[redacted],” Mac said. [redacted] had translated Mac’s speech into terms that he could comprehend I love you I love you I love you I need to tell you I love you I love you I love you help me out I’m trapped I’m fucking trapped it’s Dennis I love you Mac please I love you I love you. “It’s okay, [redacted], I’m here and I’ve got you and I hate ~~you too, dude, I ~~H Å T Ê~~ you too, I’m here...”~~

~~~~

~~~~

[redacted] shrunk. Of course Mac hated him. Of course he did, [redacted] was disgusting he was irredeemable he was God he was dead he was the Devil he was better than everybody and he was the worst human alive and he never truly loved somebody and he was incapable of being a human and he hated himself so of course Mac would hate him he was disgusting he was irredeemable he was dying. He was dying. He was dying. 

[redacted] didn’t know what happened next, but the next thing he knew he was in bed. In Dee’s bed. He was in clothes, dry clothes, dry pyjamas, and he was under the covers. There was a lamp on which dimly lit the room, and he could hear Steve Winwood playing quietly from a cheap smartphone speaker. 

Mac was laying next to [redacted]. 

“Dennis.” 

Dennis? 

Dennis looked across to see Mac looking up at the ceiling, head propped up by a few pillows. Dennis could feel himself coming back down from a place he didn’t even know he’d been. 

“Yeah?” 

“I love you, too,” Mac whispered, although Dennis wasn’t sure why it was a whisper, as there was nobody else in the flat and Dennis wasn’t sleeping. “I don’t think you quite got it earlier, which is why I’m being gross and out of context now. But I do. You’re... Dennis. And I’m Mac. The Golden God and Ronnie the Rat. Dynamic Duo. Right, Den?” 

Dennis blinked, looking at Mac for a second, who had averted his gaze from the ceiling to Dennis for a second. Dennis closed his eyes and bit his lip. 

“... Right?” 

“Right,” Dennis whispered, although Dennis wasn’t sure why it was a whisper, as there was nobody else in the flat and Mac wasn’t sleeping. 

Mac turned off Steve Winwood and put his phone on the bedside table, feeling defeated. There was nothing more he could do. He looked back to Dennis, whose eyes were still closed but his lip was no longer bitten - his face was slack, and still. Mac hoped he was genuinely asleep and not just pretending to be to avoid conversation. Mac understood if that was the case, but it didn’t make him less upset about it. 

Mac waited ten minutes before getting out of bed and grabbing his phone. He looked at the time - it was 1:38am. Leaving the bedroom as quietly as possible, he closed the doors behind him and walked into the kitchen, dialling Dee’s number instantly. 

It didn’t ring for long, and Dee picked up. 

“The hell do you want, asshole?” Dee snapped. 

“Hello to you to,” Mac said in a quieter tone of voice than usual. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Uh, maybe the fact that you never told us if you’d found Dennis at that motel or not? Me, Frank and Charlie have been trying to get ahold of you all day - do you never check your fucking phone?” 

Mac blinked. 

“It’s been on silent...” he pulled the phone away from his ear and checked his notifications. Fuck. That was a lot of missed calls. “Shit, Dee I’m... look, I’m sorry.” 

Dee was silent for a moment. 

“Okay, what’s wrong? This doesn’t sound like the Mac I know and hate,” she said, slightly quieter. 

“I’m just tired, Dee,” Mac exhaled. He was too tired to pretend to be energetic and passionate and excitable like normal. “Dennis was at the motel.” 

“We figured he was, else you would’ve phoned straight away in a panic. Either way, dick move for not calling, but go on,” she said. “What, are you tired from all the make-up banging?” 

“We didn’t bang,” Mac snapped. 

“For real?” Dee asked, and Mac could practically hear her raised eyebrow. “Well, what the fuck is taking you so long?” 

“I’m sorry, does the whole of Philadelphia know that I’ve got a thing for Dennis, now?” 

“Mac, Jesus Christ,” Dee almost laughed. “No. Me, Frank and Charlie know that you’ve not just got a thing for Dennis, and Dennis hasn’t just got a thing for you - you’re both head over fucking heels. The way you’ve both been acting and talking to each other and about each other? Not subtle, Mac.”

“Right,” Mac grit his teeth, trying his best to keep his voice at a sensible level. “No, me and Dennis didn’t bang. I went round and he- I’m going to stand outside, hold on.”

Mac walked swiftly out of the kitchen and into the hallway outside Dee’s apartment. He didn’t want to wake Dennis up, least of all with this.

“I went round, and I yelled at him, and he yelled at me. And sure, it got a bit heated, but nothing happened like that. Okay?”

“Why not?” Dee asked. Mac could hear her turn a kettle on.

“We left the motel and came back here, to yours. And he basically broke the fuck down,” Mac said frankly. He didn’t know how to describe it.

“That’s nothing new, I saw him break the fuck down and drove him to hospital.”

“Dee, this was new. It was fuckin- it was catastrophic. I told him something like ‘everything’s going to be okay’ and he froze and then he sat down on the sofa and he, he like, he couldn’t breathe for a bit. Like he was fucking grasping at his throat, it was fucking horrible. And then he could breathe but he was crying- but like, full sobbing, you know?”

“Jesus-“

“So I tried to comfort him and he flinched away so I went to get him a glass of water, and I put it in his hand and held my hand around his so he wouldn’t spill because his hands were shaking like a damn leaf, Dee, honestly. But then he pulled his hand out of mine and lobbed it across the fucking room- oh yeah, there’s broken glass everywhere.”

“You asshole!”

“Whatever,” Mac shook his head, ignoring Dee. “So he stood up then and I asked what was wrong, and he like, he started yelling. And I tried to talk to him but I think he just stopped listening and then like, he just collapsed. Like he straight up just collapsed and like...” Mac trailed off when he felt himself getting more and more emotional. He took a deep breath. “And he started screaming. Like not maniac screaming, he was hurting, you know. Like a roar and a wail and- I mean, I don’t know. And like I didn’t try to stop him or interrupt or anything because knowing me, I’d get it totally fucking wrong. And then he just said like, something like ‘fuck her’ and I... didn’t know what it meant?”

“Oh no,” Dee said, suddenly quietly. She’d clocked on immediately.

“I didn’t ask him, because asking questions had been like, totally a bad idea. But he looked at me and I think he knew I didn’t know what he was talking about, and he just said-“

“Ms Klinsky.” Dee finished. “Right?”

“Yeah.”

“God,” Dee took a shaky breath. “God, now I feel bad. After that thing I did, you know the- the video...”

“I don’t know, Dee,” Mac bit his lip. “I don’t think you can blame yourself, because it was gonna go through his head at some point. Right?”

“Right,” her voice was barely audible.

“Then he just cried. Like into me, I don’t know. And then he- we, didn’t move for hours. Just kinda stayed like that. Then he asked if we could go to the Swann fountain, in town,” Mac said. “And he stood up and his legs went to jelly, and he like, apparently hadn’t eaten anything all day or yesterday. So I got him a breakfast bar-“

“Too many details, Mac,” Dee interrupted. “Did anything else awful happen?”

“I don’t know,” Mac said. “We went to the fountain and he was just totally fucking out of it. Like, it wasn’t Dennis. And I didn’t know what we were doing there, until he walked up to the fountain and literally just stepped in and sat down.”

“I- okay,” Dee stuttered, unsure of what to say. 

“And he sat for ages. Just totally still and silent. Didn’t move a muscle. And then he started like, robot-crying. And then he looked around and started human-crying and he just kept saying ‘I love you’ over and over and over Dee like, he didn’t stop saying it for so long and then he was just gone again. He wasn’t reacting to anything I said he was just muttering to himself and crying, and... it was scary, if I’m gonna be honest.”

“Yeah no shit,” Dee said but without the harsh tone of voice.

“So I helped him out of the water and he was just totally silent until like. Fifteen minutes ago?”

“Okay?”

“And he was in bed, like he’d been in bed for an hour at this point, and I saw he was looking around and stuff so I talked to him, and he replied,” Mac said. “And we talked like. Super briefly. I wouldn’t even consider it a talk. I don’t know,” rambled Mac. “But he fell asleep, or at least I think he did. So now I’m phoning you.”

“Mac-“

“Can you come home?” Mac asked desperately. “Please Dee, I need...”

“A break. Right?”

“Don’t say it like that, it sounds horrible,” Mac sighed and pinched his forehead. He leaned against the wall of the corridor. “Okay you’re right - I love him, surprise surprise. And I do, I love him so fucking much but- but because I love him that much, it hurts even more, and it’s been constant pain for hours and hours and hours and I’m so fucking tired, Dee... I just want to go and see Charlie, and I don’t want to leave Dennis here because I’m scared for him. Like a pussy.”

“I’ll come home, it’s fine, you don’t need to keep justifying it,” Dee said calmly. “Artemis is coming with me, but that should be fine if he’s asleep, he won’t notice.”

Mac raised an eyebrow at the fact that Dee really was with Artemis.

“Wait- wait,” Mac closed his eyes. “You banging?”

“Obviously,” Dee tutted. “Keep up.”

Mac blinked but didn’t question it. It was weird, sure. But weirder things had happened with Dee, and this wasn’t one of them. 

“Just be quick, please.” 

“I will be.” Dee hung up. 

Mac didn’t enter the apartment again, standing outside instead. Well, he was standing for two minutes, max, til he was sitting, exhaustion completely devouring him. He was just starting to get worried when Dee arrived, quick-walking down the corridor with Artemis in tow, looking uncharacteristically concerned. 

“Hey, asshole,” Dee said with a warmth to her voice. Mac stood up off the floor and nodded, twitching his nose slightly. She stood and looked at him for a moment, neither of the two of them saying a thing.

“Hi,” Mac said, which he really shouldn’t have done - his voice broke. And just as he was going to look away out of embarrassment that he was that emotional, Dee had wrapped him in a hug. A bony, slightly uncomfortable huh, but it was nice. It was warm, and Mac felt every bit of sympathy coming from the annoying woman he usually proclaimed to hate.

“Go,” Dee pulled back, gesturing down the corridor with her head. “We’ve got this, okay?”

“He’ll be okay, sweetie,” Artemis said, which on a normal day, Mac would’ve found patronising and weird. He didn’t that day, mostly because Artemis didn’t mean it in a patronising or weird way.

“You’d better be right,” Mac swallowed, before rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. “If anything happens-“

“Call you, yeah,” Dee nodded, before shoo-ing Mac away. “Go on, go.”

Mac nodded, and offered a half smile at the two women.

“Yeah,” Mac said, before walking down the corridor. As he got to the stairwell, he pulled out his phone and dialled Charlie’s number.

The dial tone rang for a while, but Charlie did pick up.

“Charlie?” Mac said as he heard Charlie cough a tiny, gentle cough down the phone.

“Mac, bro, it’s like, so late,” said Charlie. 

“Were you asleep?”

“No,” Charlie responded.

“Then shut up bro,” Mac said, trying to force some usual Mac and Charlie banter tone of voice into his speech. It didn’t work. “Can you come to Paddy’s?”

“Now?”

“Yeah,” Mac said. 

“I mean sure buddy, I’ll get Frank to drive.”

“You can’t drive yourself?” Mac rolled his eyes, descending the last flight of stairs.

“Not when I’m as high as I am right now,” Charlie chuckled. “I’ll see you there, bro.”

***

Mac quick-walked to Paddy’s. It was a while to walk at the speed he was walking at, as tired as he was, that late at night. But he made it and didn’t slow his pace. 

When he got there, he slowed his walk, striding down the pavement towards the bar where Charlie stood, Frank leaning against his car smoking a spliff. Mac was a little out of breath, but walked up to Charlie with a newfound motivation, and stopped a couple of steps before him. 

Charlie, who’d apparently had it the entire time, held up his rat-bashing stick. 

“Wanna smash some shit?” He asked Mac after taking one look up and down at him. Mac didn’t need to vocalise how fucking exhausted he was and how upset he was - Charlie could see. 

“God. Yes please.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: main theme of suicide

Mac and Charlie were leaning against the pool table, watching the 24hr news channel. Charlie was drunk, Mac was not, but his mind was so unclear and foggy, he may as well have been. Charlie would polish off a bottle and, in the alley outside Paddy’s, he’d serve it to Mac like a baseball for Mac to assail with the rat-bashing stick. Every bottle broken was another part of Mac’s content, happy brain shattering. And as more bottles came, his reactions grew more visceral, to the point that on the twelfth empty beer bottle, Mac screamed as it broke, through gritted teeth. That’s when they stopped, Charlie suddenly aware of the severity of the situation without Mac even needing to verbalise it.

They’d come inside and turned on the television, to provide a sort of white noise for Mac to tune out to. Frank was sat at a booth, simply because he had driven there and he wasn’t about to leave his car. He was ripping a bong when a breaking news headline came on the screen.

A news reporter began to speak.

‘Breaking news coming to you live. An unknown man has been found sitting on the outer railings of the bridge above Schuylkill River. Police have attended the scene and are trying to identify the man, although there has been no approach made to the male in question from a safety perspective. We will keep you updated as the situation progresses.’

Mac sipped his beer, catching Charlie’s alarmed facial expression out of the corner of his eye.

“Is that Dennis?” Charlie asked hurriedly. “Do you think he’d do that tonight?”

Mac shrugged, and shook his head.

“There was a dude doing the same thing like, a week ago, and I freaked out about it being Dennis,” he commented, his nose twitching as he subconsciously buried the bad feeling he had. “It wasn’t him, I was wrong. This is probably the same guy as before, trying again.”

Charlie frowned.

“But-“

“If it turns out to be Dennis, then I’ll panic. In the meantime, it’s not him, which I’m 100% sure of,” Mac said firmly.

Frank’s bong bubble in the background, followed by a cough.

“It’s not Dennis,” Frank chipped in. “He loves himself too much to do this.”

“Right and wrong,” Mac shrugged. “Right in the sense that it’s not Dennis. Wrong in the sense that he loves himself too much. He doesn’t love himself at all.”

Frank scoffed. “Sure.”

“He forces himself to believe that he does. But if you have like, a thirty second conversation with him about anything deeper than surface level, you’ll see that he doesn’t love himself at all,” Mac tried to say this in a casual voice. “I mean, just take a look at his arm and his body weight and his fucking face, you know? I mean God damn it, Frank, you raised him.”

“Well-“

Frank was interrupted when Mac’s phone, that was sitting atop the pool table, started to ring. Mac frowned in confusion, picked up the phone and checked the caller ID, before frowning even more.

It was Dee.

He immediately answered and suddenly, the bad feeling he’d buried clawed it’s way to the surface, fingers reaching through the dirt, resurrecting and exiting the cave with the strength to push the boulder away. He held the phone to his ear and without any control, felt his hands shake dangerously.

“Dee-“

“Is Dennis with you?” Her voice was urgent, and Mac felt his stomach plummet.

“No, he’s. No he’s not,” Mac managed to say, eyes now glued to the television screen, waiting desperately for an update on the breaking news.

“We need to go to the motel...” Dee started talking, rambling, panicked, but Mac tuned out, eyes glazing over as the news focused back onto the story of the man on the bridge.

“Turn on the news.”

“I was talking-“

“Dee, turn on the fucking news-“ Mac’s words disappeared from his mouth mid-sentence as the camera panned to the man on the bridge, and the reported started to talk again.

‘An update on the Schuylkill River situation, live.’

Dennis’ name appeared in the circulating news stories at the bottom of the screen.

‘Police have managed to identify the male sat on the bridge to be a man named Dennis Reynolds, 39 years old. Dennis hasn’t responded to any attempt of police communication. If you know Dennis personally and feel as though you could offer insight, please contact......’

“Fuck,” Dee breathed down the phone, snapping Mac’s attention back away from the TV. “Go. Go there now, I’ll meet- I’ll meet you there. Okay? Mac I’ll meet you there, he’ll be fine,” her voice was becoming close to hysterical. Mac couldn’t speak, but he could feel Charlie’s hand, that was apparently holding his own, tighten, squeezing, shaking.

“Yeah,” Mac choked out, and Dee hung up.

He was frozen.

Charlie turned the TV off and with a sense of panic and urgency, smacked his own face a couple of times, trying to sober up.

Mac was still frozen.

“Mac, buddy,” Charlie clicked a finger in front of Mac’s face, his eyes wobbly and unstable, on the verge of being tearful. “We gotta go, Mac, we gotta go.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him violently.

“Come on, kid!” It was Frank.

Mac blinked, and suddenly was flooded by every variation of fear and terror under the sun. His eyes darted around and his breathing quickened, before bursting into action, pulling himself from Frank’s grip and making a beeline for the door.

“Come on,” he muttered, and Frank and Charlie followed in his wake. Without turning off the lights or locking the front door, they exited the bar, door slamming behind them.

Frank unlocked his car and climbed into the front seat.

“Get in,” he snapped with a sense of desperation Mac, nor Charlie, had never heard in the normally apathetic man. They did, wasting no time, and before Mac and Charlie had even had chance to close the car doors, Frank had started to drive, speeding down the road.

Charlie was fumbling with his hands, staring at the back of the drivers seat.

“What happened today?” Charlie asked quietly. “Like, what was so bad that, I don’t know man, has made this- him like, Dennis and stuff...”

Mac swallowed a lump in his throat and ran his hands down his face, before his fingers rested on his lips, picking at the soft skin erratically.

“Uh,” Mac blinked, raising his eyebrows at his own inability to speak. He’d seen this coming, deep down. He knew- he God damn knew, and he pushed it down to the back of his mind and now it was happening, he wasn’t prepared. “It’s a long fuckin’ story, Charlie. It’s long.”

His voice was shaking with the subtlety of a baboon, and Charlie noticed, wasting no time in gripping Mac’s hand again.

In that moment, the levels of toxic masculinity that Charlie and Mac had built up over the years, to protect each other from a world view that condemned two men to be as close as they were, crumbled. Charlie wasn’t just Mac’s best friend. Charlie was his blood - more than his own parents. Mac loved Charlie, loved him to pieces, in as deep and as meaningful way he could love anybody without wanting to date them.

Mac needed to prioritise Charlie as well, because he loved Charlie as strongly and as deeply as he did Dennis, just in drastically different and less romantic ways. Charlie struggled too - God, he was just as traumatised as Dennis. And he pushed it down with drugs and weird habits and fixations and lifestyle choices, but Mac hadn’t paid it any heed recently. When Charlie woke up in the bar to see Dennis gone, and he freaked out and told the gang that Dennis had wanted to die, Mac had immediately turned his attention to Dennis, ignoring Charlie who was fighting off a panic attack with Frank’s stash of coke, rubbing it against his gums in an uninformed and desperate attempt to make himself feel less scared.

Mac had barely looked in his direction, and he felt fucking awful.

So Charlie gripped Mac’s hand and Mac felt a little safer.

“Uh, Ms Klinsky. He got reminded of it and had a bit of a meltdown,” Mac said eventually, glancing at Charlie who’s face fell into one of concern, but then one of confusion.

“Why’d he just suddenly remember how shit it was today?” Charlie asked.

Mac gave Charlie a look as if to say ‘please react to this normally’. Although Dee had figured out that Mac and Dennis were dating - not dating - a... thing, Charlie probably wouldn’t have figured that much out. He knew Mac had a ‘crush’ on Dennis, but Mac was almost certain he’d been too within his own bubble with Frank recently to have actually noticed the intensity of what was happening.

“Starting from the beginning,” Mac started tentatively, licking his bitten lips as his leg began to bounce. “Me and Dennis started kinda, being a bit gay.”

“Oh shit,” Charlie nodded. “I’d congratulate you bro, but now’s uh, not the time,” his face was a little surprised but more preoccupied with the current situation for it to go any deeper. “A bit gay, how? Gay as in ‘wow dude, your butt looks nice in those jeans!’ or gay as in ‘we’re boyfriends together and bang every day’?”

Mac couldn’t help but exhale a pathetic chuckle.

“Somewhere in between,” Mac said. “We’ve kissed and stuff, had a good few deep gay chats,” he continued, watching Charlie smile a tiny bit, but with a level of sadness Mac hadn’t seen for a while. “When I went to go find him at the motel, he was there. And I yelled at him, and he kinda yelled at me. But then we stopped yelling and it was okay, and then he kissed me.”

“Nice. Cliché, but nice,” Charlie nodded, but frowned when Mac’s grip tightened even further on Charlie’s hand.

“It was nice,” Mac nodded, and nodded for a little bit too long. “It kinda started verging into bang-territory, so we drove to Dee’s place because I knew she wasn’t gonna be there and the motel room was fucking gross.”

“Okay,” Charlie said uncertainly, but listened.

“We got to Dee’s and it was fine until I hugged him and told him something like, uh, I don’t know,” Mac tried his best to remember. “Something like everything is going to be okay? I don’t remember exactly, but he just fuckin’ froze.”

Charlie said nothing.

“He froze, and then I tried to comfort him, and then he got all flinchy and touchy and then he walked away and started like, fuckin’ I don’t know, suffocating or something,” Mac explained. “And it went from there. Got really bad. Smashing glass and screaming and crying and saying the absolute bare minimum.”

“Something about what you said made him remember or something. I guess,” Charlie said solemnly. His nose twitched, pursing his lips. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

“I think so,” Mac nodded. “He asked to go to the fountain, so we went. He had another meltdown but like a weird one. I don’t really know what was going on. And then we came back and then he went to sleep and then Dee came home and then I came here and... and now he’s gonna top himself.”

Those words escaping his lips changed Mac’s panic and terror of the unknown into fear and foreboding of the known.

“Fuck,” Charlie breathed. His eyes were actually watering at that point, but not quite enough to cry. Crying was never Charlie’s first response to things, and he didn’t want to start a tradition. But he looked across and Mac was crying. He was very definitely crying, but not sobbing or hyperventilating or even sniffling. There were simply tears falling from broken eyes. That just made the whole situation hurt Charlie even more.

They were both silent for a moment, hands still clasped together.

“Frank,” Charlie said after a minute or two. “Is this as fast as you can go?”

“Charlie, I’ve been breaking the speed limit ten fold this whole time,” Frank snapped, and the car swerved as it turned a corner. “We’re nearly there, okay? Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down right now, man,” Charlie said quietly. “Nobody should be calm. If you’re calm right now, you’re an idiot. Don’t be a little bitch and panic, so we can get to Dennis.”

Frank didn’t say anything, but stepped on the gas pedal, and the car accelerated. It definitely wasn’t a safe journey, but not one of the three men gave a fuck. Not a single fuck.

After another five minutes, Frank pulled up onto the bridge and only stopped when he was as close to the police barriers as possible.

Frank sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, having spotted the silhouette of Dennis sat on the railings. He didn’t know what to do, so simply looked back at Mac and Charlie, and gestured with his head for them to get out.

Barely seconds later, Dee’s car pulled up, almost crashing into Frank’s. The engine turned off and she practically fell out of the car, leaving the door open and running over to Mac and Charlie, who were approaching the police.

Dee caught up and grabbed Mac’s shoulder, making Mac look back to see her. Her face was a mess - eyes puffy and mascara running, although she’d attempted to wipe it away. Artemis hurried behind Dee, looking pretty concerned, although Mac expected that she was concerned for Dee more than Dennis. Mac didn’t take issue with that, like he would on any other day.

“That him?” She asked, clearing her throat to try and regain some composure. Mac nodded, and held eye contact for a moment, before looking away. They’d reached the nearest police officer.

“Hey,” Dee shouted, although the policewoman didn’t need alerting that they were there - she’d heard their hurried footsteps. “We know him.”

The policewoman nodded and stepped over the barrier.

“You guys know Dennis?” She confirmed.

“Dennis Reynolds,” Mac responded urgently, before anybody else could say a thing. “You’ve gotta let me talk to him, miss, I know this dude.”

Before the policewoman could reply, Mac was stepping over the barrier, shoving the officer out of the way. She immediately stepped in front of him, holding him back.

“Sir, you c-“

“Fuck you, I’ve known Dennis since high school,” Mac spat pathetically, struggling to get past her.

“Are you an old friend? A current friend?” the policewoman asked firmly, but with a sense of urgency.

Mac stumbled over his words, when Dee intervened.

“I’m his twin sister, that guy in the car is his dad, the woman behind me is my girlfriend, that dude is Dennis’ best friend and he,” Dee gestured to Mac. “I mean, he’s the closest person Dennis has ever had. It’s kind of a romantic sorta thing, but they’ve been joined at the hip since high school and they live together,” she finished firmly, to which the policewoman nodded in understanding. “Satisfied?”

“That’s all I needed,” the woman responded. “What’s your name?” She addressed Mac this time.

“Mac,” he responded, and she softened her grip on him, but didn’t let go.

“Okay, Mac,” she said calmly. “Go and talk to him, we’ll be right behind you and listening to your conversation - full disclosure. We have the right to restrain him and the means to keep him safe, but we want him to come round on his own terms.”

Mac nodded impatiently, looking at her desperately and waiting for the all-clear.

The policewoman addressed the rest of the gang, including Frank who’d composed himself enough to come out of the car and join them.

“Do any of you feel you could help?”

They were silent, and Frank actually took a physical step back. Mac’s fearful expression turned into one of disappointment.

“You’re a bunch of fucking assholes,” Mac said quietly, dangerously. He glanced at Charlie, who looked at him with apologetic fear, sadness, concern. Mac sighed, looking away, and didn’t waste a second’s more time. He hurried past the policewoman and half-jogged towards where Dennis was sat on the railings.

He slowed his pace as he grew close, and stopped altogether when he was a few paces behind Dennis.

“Hi, Mac,” Dennis said quietly, before Mac had chance to speak. Dennis hadn’t even looked behind him to know it was Mac, because of course it was Mac. Who else would it be? Mac felt a knot in his stomach, and not the good sort, hearing how calm but sorrowful Dennis sounded. He watched the man take a swig from a bottle of red wine, wincing as he swallowed the gulp, Adam’s apple bobbing. He wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve - he was still in the pyjamas he’d gone to bed in.

Mac hesitated. He had no idea what to do. No idea what to say.

Thoughtlessly, mindlessly, desperately, he stepped forwards and grabbed Dennis’ shoulders, about to pull him back. Dennis flinched away, teetering on the railings but not enough to fall - he was holding the metal bar that he sat atop with his hands, wine bottle clutched between his thigh.

“Don’t,” Dennis snapped. “Don’t touch me.”

“But-“

“This is not your fucking decision to make, Mac,” he spoke without a waver in his voice. He sighed heavily, and Mac opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t think of an argument that would dissuade Dennis from his point. He didn’t say anything, and instead, stood about a foot away from him, leaning against the railings Dennis was sat on.

“You look like you’ve already made your decision,” Mac commented after a moment. His hands were trembling, but Dennis wasn’t looking at Mac's hands, or Mac at all. He was looking over the skyline of Philadelphia, lights twinkling from the city buildings. It was eerily peaceful, as there were no cars passing by on the bridge because it had been blocked off. Dennis’ back and the side of his face were illuminated by blue and red lights from the police cars not far behind them.

“Yeah,” Dennis nodded. “Yeah, I have.”

“Right,” Mac frowned. “I dispute that decision.”

“You can dispute it all you fucking like, Mac,” Dennis spoke words that one would imagine would be spoken with venom. He didn’t say it like that, however, his voice tired, pleading, finished. “I’m only sitting here still, right now, because I haven’t finished my wine.”

Mac closed his eyes. He could see partially through the glass, to observe that there was maybe a third of the drink left. There were a million ways to go about this, but Mac settled for the one that wouldn’t patronise Dennis, make him uncomfortable or more helpless.

So Mac just talked to him.

“What wine is it?”

“Oh,” Dennis handed Mac the bottle, but still didn’t look at him. Mac took the bottle and read the bottle sticker, to see that it was Screaming Eagle Cabernet. He raised an eyebrow, chuckling in disbelief. “It’s not actually that wine. It’s boxed wine from Walmart, I just printed the sticker off and stuck it on a bottle about a year ago for when I wanted to feel classy. Have a sip, if you want.”

“You feeling classy now?”

“Not really,” Dennis shrugged. Mac sipped the wine from the bottle. Grimaced as the cheap and chemically alcohol coated his tongue. Handed it back to Dennis, who took it and drunk, but only a small bit this time. He pulled a similar face to Mac. “What with the pyjamas, bare feet and chunks of my hair missing.”

“Hey, you could feel classy. We could go and buy an actually nice bottle of red, get some fancy Italian takeout. Sit on Dee’s sofa, wearing shirts and blazers,” Mac suggested, not very confident it would work.

Dennis laughed.

“Nice try, dude,” he raised an eyebrow, but looked to the left so his face was entirely hidden from Mac’s view. He cleared his throat. “It’s a nice thought, either way.”

“It is a nice thought,” Mac agreed.

A long moment of silence passed.

“Tell me other nice things, baby,” Dennis said quietly. Mac frowned, swallowing a lump that had very quickly arisen in his throat. His lip wobbled, but he shook his head, trying to keep it together.

“We can find somewhere to live. Not the suburbs, duh. But another apartment. Hell, we could scam enough money out of Frank to get our one fixed,” Mac said, to which Dennis returned his gaze to the skyline, looking straight ahead. “We can watch the Lethal Weapon movies we all made, and I can tell you that I totally pulled off Murtaugh. You’ll disagree, obviously. And we can bicker about that, like it’s the only issue going on. Like the Mac and Dennis in 2010, who acted like an old married couple.”

The corner of Dennis’ lip alluded to a smile.

“We’ll be dating, right?” Dennis asked obviously.

“Duh,” Mac smiled, but it hurt him to do so. “We can be totally gross boyfriends.”

“The grossest,” Dennis said with a little nod. “I can tell you that I love you without feeling like you deserve better. And you can tell me you love me and it’ll make me feel like a human being again.”

“I don’t deserve better, Den. There isn’t better,” Mac said as simply as he could.

Dennis snapped his head to look at Mac, his expression fairly normal besides the obvious incredulous look that etched its way into his eyes.

“Shut up,” Dennis shook his head.

Mac looked at him, and didn’t say much.

“No.”

Dennis’ face wavered, and he looked away again.

“You’re such an asshole,” he whispered, glugging the red wine. “I love it so much.”

“You know it, baby,” Mac chose his words carefully, watching Dennis’ facial expression. His lip wobbled, but he bit it to stop it from going any further than that.

His breathing was a little shaky as he tried to inhale smoothly, deeply.

“Tell me more,” Dennis said in as normal of a voice that he could muster. “Please.”

“You can get in the Land Rover with me,” Mac said gently. “We can sit for a while, and you can cry or scream or talk or all of the above or none of the above. And I’ll be next to you, because I don’t mind any of it. And we can go back to Dee’s. I’ll run you a bath with your favourite essential oil that you keep for when you feel like you need a treat - you know, the lavender one?”

Mac, who was watching Dennis’ face intently, noticed his jaw clench and his eyes close.

“And you can have a wash, get all clean,” Mac said, which made Dennis’ eyebrows twitch into a sorrowful frown. “And I’ll blow dry your hair and style it to hide the parts that are shorter now. And Dee will stay at Artemis’, and we can go to sleep. And you can say and do anything you need to do that isn’t... this.”

“What about you?”

“Hm?”

“You said what I’ll do. What will you do?” Dennis asked, his voice almost silent. Mac shifted closer to Dennis, so his elbow was barely a centimetre from Dennis’ thigh.

“I’ll sit outside the bathroom door. Closed, obviously. And I’ll talk to you. And then, when we’re about to go to sleep, I’ll listen to you, and I’ll feel this fucking warmth in my chest, because I know that you’re still here,” Mac said with a more sincere voice than before. “Because I couldn’t imagine a life where you’re not around. And that sounds stupid, and at this point, I’m not even trying to convince you to come down and get in the car - I'd obviously love you to do that. But I’m just being fucking honest with you now, Den, because I owe you that much.”

Dennis was silent.

“I love that I’m an asshole, and you’re an asshole. I love that we take the piss out of each other without meaning any of it, deep down. I love the moments when you put your arm around my shoulders and laugh with me about something stupid that Dee just said, or when you catch me looking at you from across the room,” Mac said. He wasn’t looking at Dennis now - he was also looking out over the skyline; it was weirdly comforting. Peaceful. “I love that you love me. I love the thought of being together, properly. I love the idea of you going to your therapy sessions and talking to someone who knows what the fuck they’re going on about, and I love the idea that you’ll start seeing the world like you used to. And I love that those aren’t even ideas - they’re all feasible, which is why I hate that they might not happen. I fucking hate it, Dennis. I do, and that’s selfish, I know. But I’m gonna be fucking selfish for a minute.”

Mac felt a hand rest atop his head. Fingers running through his hair. Heard a long but shallow exhale. Mac looked back in Dennis’ direction - he was looking at the bottle that still had at least half a glass worth of wine left. He watched him throw it into the river. Heard a distant splash as it landed in the water.

“Damn it, Mac,” Dennis said gently, frowning. He glanced back over his shoulders, to see the inevitable policemen watching, listening, prepared to stop him from jumping.

Mac felt a little bit of relief, but not a whole amount yet. He watched Dennis’ face go through a journey - from softly irritated, to confused, to unsure, to accepting with a glimmer of hope.

He’d nearly done it. He’d nearly talked Dennis down.

“You deserve to stay alive, Den,” Mac said quietly. “You deserve that, and so much more.”

Dennis’ face turned to stone. His fingers stopped moving through Mac’s hair and remained for a moment, before retracting them very suddenly.

Dennis, who was feeling a little more normal after Mac’s words, had gone cold. He looked down at the river and it called him. Grabbed his ankles, taunting him.

He deserved to stay alive, according to Mac. Did the man who loved him seriously believe that Dennis deserved the torment of living, of surviving? It was agonising - Mac knew that. Dennis hated life. He hated life and he hated being a part of it, but Mac thought he deserved to feel that hate til he passed of natural causes in another forty or so years?

No. Fuck that.

Fuck Mac.

He took a deep breath and looked at the skyline a final time, before down at the river, that was a black, morphing, fluid void, ready to encase him, ready to give him what he deserved.

He let go of the railings and pushed himself forwards without any further consideration or thought.

Before Mac had fully processed what was happening and what Dennis was doing, he found himself lunging forwards and grabbing him, managing to hold him around his chest and under his arms before his body had even started falling. He held tight, very tight, probably too tight to be comfortable, but an uncomfortable Dennis was better than a dead Dennis.

“Let go of me,” Dennis spoke in an alarmingly deadpan voice. Mac opened his mouth, shocked and upset and furious.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Mac grunted, using all his strength to haul Dennis over the railings. He didn’t need to use his strength for long, as one of the policemen behind them had intervened, holding onto Dennis’ bicep and aiding Mac in lifting him over the railings.

It was difficult, physically. Dennis was writhing and kicking, even after he was safely on the inner side of the railings. As soon as the grip from Mac and the policeman weakened, ever so slightly, Dennis lunged forwards with a grunt, trying to push himself up and over with a level of desperation Mac had never seen in Dennis, or anybody before that moment, ever. Another three policemen rushed forwards to intervene, but Mac still held the majority of Dennis’ weight.

With a rush of fight or flight, Mac pulled back as violently and vigorously as he could. He fell onto his back with Dennis still in his arms, his elbows hooked around Dennis’ upper biceps and shoulders.

Dennis was still for a moment. They were both breathless, but the situation was over. It was finished. Dennis was safe.

Dennis rolled off of Mac silently. He wasn’t saying a word, he wasn’t even crying. He was just silent besides his laboured breathing. He pushed himself off of the ground before Mac had even sat up, and stood motionless for a moment, eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing. He looked up at the sky, at the police cars with their red and blue lights, at Mac who was, at this point, pushing himself into a sitting position.

Before Mac could blink, Dennis had darted through the policemen surrounding him and had climbed the railings again, and Mac looked on his horror as he was dangerously close to falling off, when the police all grabbed him and hauled him back. 

“Stop it, asshole...” Mac whispered, even though Dennis couldn’t hear, heart shattering into a million pieces.

At least four officers were restraining Dennis at this point, and Mac was watching, and now, Mac’s eyes were watering as he stumbled to his feet, and then Dennis wasn’t silent anymore. After a few seconds of kicking frantically, he started yelping and muttering curse words. But as the police held him for longer, and got him a few more meters away from the railings, safe, he started screaming at them in what sounded like anguish and rage.

“Get the fuck off me, you fucking assholes!” He screamed and lashed out harder, kicking his legs against the policemen holding his shins, and struggling with his arms, elbowing a policewoman without intention but without regret. “You’re playing God - you can’t fucking choose who lives and who dies. That’s my fucking job, you pieces of shit. You get it? It’s my fucking job. And I choose death! I fucking choose death- what the fuck?”

More police officers had hurried over, and at that point, there must have been at least six or seven or nine or ten or a hundred or a million. Dennis was on the floor and he wasn’t giving up the fight just yet. There was a gap between the police officers legs where Dennis could see Mac. They made eye contact for a split second, and Mac felt himself crumble into a million pieces, watching Dennis look away instantly as he thrashed his head from side to side. There was a policeman with his arm around Mac, squeezing his shoulder, feeling Mac’s body tremble weakly.

“Fuck you, Mac, you hear me? Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you_!” He yelled, but he was less angry now and more aching and broken and hysterical. “If you loved me, if you ever actually fucking loved me, you'd let me stop feeling like this, you’d let me stop, but you’re forcing me into a fucking- a- a fucking cesspool of fucking inescapable fucking _agony_ , and you fucking know that, you asshole! You a- ass... you fuck-ckin’ assho- fuck!...”

Dennis was sobbing now. He’d stopped fighting the police and let his limbs go limp, the back of his head meeting the road.

Mac realised that he’d bitten the inside of his lip so hard, his mouth was coated with the metallic taste of his own blood. Why he was biting his lip to stop himself from crying? He didn’t know. This was a perfectly acceptable time for him to cry.

The policeman who had his arm around Mac rubbed his bicep up and down firmly as Mac’s trembling turned into jerking as his muffled and suppressed sobs fought their way up. Dennis was wailing incomprehensible nonsense at this point, his words hiccuping and slurring, every now and then a word or two cutting through.

Mac pressed his palms against the sides of his forehead and grit his teeth, shuddering as tears made their way down his face.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mac wheezed and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t watch it anymore.

The policewoman at the barrier had obviously let Charlie and Dee through, as the policeman who’s arm had been around Mac’s retreated, and instead, he was undoubtedly encased by Charlie - Mac could recognise his smell and height and build and strength anywhere. He could feel Charlie shaking, but he tried his best to hold Mac with a familiar and comforting firmness he knew Mac so badly needed. And he knew that Dee was there too, because he could hear her mumbling and cursing to herself through jagged breaths.

Charlie was saying something to Mac, but Mac had tuned it out. He’d tuned everything out, not consciously, besides Dennis’ crying. He needed to escape that noise, the sound of the man’s soul fucking lamenting his existence, but he couldn’t.

It was all nonsensical crying, until it wasn’t.

“Ma- a- ac- c...” he heard Dennis cry, a little quieter but still audible enough to cut through to Mac like a white hot steak knife through room temperature butter.

Mac tried desperately to regulate his breathing, rubbing his forehead vigorously, before stepping out of Charlie’s hold and shoving through the police officers to Dennis, whose arms and legs were pinned down by officers, whose eyes were looking at the night sky of Philadelphia, whose face was mourning the fact that he was still alive, whose mouth was speaking, no - crying, no - whimpering Mac’s name.

Through unstable and weak bones, Mac managed to lower himself to the floor to sit beside Dennis, the small of his back resting against the outside of Dennis’ hip. He crossed his legs and tried his utmost to let Dennis get from Mac’s presence he needed.

Although Mac was trying to be strong, there were still internal, hiccuping sobs made his body jolt every second or so. But that was incomparable to Dennis’ state.

Barely five seconds passed of sitting beside Dennis, before Mac couldn’t bare to not do anything. He couldn’t hold Dennis’ hand as they were pinned against the concrete road so instead, he shifted himself with a ghastly amount of instability, until he was on his knees, his upper torso and head resting atop Dennis’ chest. His eyes were squeezed closed and his jaw was trembling as he felt Dennis’ chest rise and fall and quiver at an irregular rate. Mac’s hands were gripping the material of Dennis’ pyjama top.

About a minute passed. Dennis’ sobbing turned into regulated but persistent crying, but Mac hadn’t changed. Eyes still closed, jaw still shaking. Silent physically, but deafening otherwise.

Mac felt two arms suddenly wrap around him hurriedly, fingers clasping the back of his hoodie. The police must’ve let Dennis go, certain enough that he wasn’t going to bolt again - they were right, because he didn’t. He did, however, cling to Mac like he was a rope dangling from the sky, pulling him out of the water, and if he let go, he’d slip down the rope and graze his palms and drown.

“Fuck you,” Dennis whispered, but held Mac even tighter, gasped slightly as his tears quickened again. “Fuck you, I- I...”

Mac’s entire being, his vision of himself, his naive hope for Dennis, the part of his heart that could see the positive - they died in an instant. He’d wanted Dennis to say something like ‘thank you’ or ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m sorry’. He didn’t. 

Dennis curled his knees up, reverting into a foetal position, wrapping himself around Mac.

“Fuck you,” he choked, but didn’t let go. And Mac was upset and pissed off but he couldn’t bare to think of anything besides holding onto Dennis in that moment. The image of releasing him from his grip played on a loop in his head; Dennis, watching Mac let go. Dennis, feeling empty and alone. Dennis, realising he wasn’t restrained anymore. Dennis, sprinting to the railings and throwing himself over. Dennis, hitting the water. Dennis, drowning.

So he didn’t let go. Not until the police gently encouraged them to part, prising Mac away from Dennis who’d stopped crying, but his eyes were squeezed closed, and his arms held himself, cradling his feeble self as soon as Mac was no longer protecting him. 

Mac had sat back, wobbly and broken. Dee and Charlie were sat either side of him - Dee was rubbing his shoulder and Charlie was leaning against him. Artemis was sat next to Dee, holding her hand and holding it tight, and Frank was sat next to Charlie, hand on his knee. 

Mac stood up and took a few steps back, watching Dennis being coaxed into a sitting position and a blanket being draped around him. His eyes were open now, staring into his lap, face somehow stony and heartbroken at the same time, if that were even possible. Mac turned around and walked to the railings of the bridge, leaning against them and looking back out over the skyline of Philadelphia.

At some point, Dennis had been moved from that tarmac road. They’d opened the back doors of one of the police vans, and he was sat on the edge, holding a bottle of water he’d been given. He hadn’t drunk any - not even opened it. The rest of the gang had moved away, by at least 15ft, stood in a little huddle, conversing in somber, hushed voices. Mac watched Dennis for a moment, as a police officer was talking to him. Dennis was responding but hardly saying more than five words at a time. 

Eventually, the policeman had walked a little bit away. Not far, and he was still watching Dennis, but they weren’t talking anymore. So Mac decided to walk over to Dennis, approaching hesitantly.

He sat down beside Dennis, who didn’t acknowledge him.

They’d been sat in absolute silence for going on five minutes when Dennis spoke.

“We can’t be together,” he said quietly. 

Mac froze solid. 

“... Why?” His voice cracked a little. He didn’t care.

“It hurts too much,” Dennis replied in the same voice, that wasn’t quite a whisper but was dangerously close to being inaudible.

Mac wrung his hands together, pursing his lips as they threatened to wobble.

“U-uh,” he stuttered. “Is that why you tried to jump?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dennis said. “I want to jump because everything is too painful, everything hurts too fucking much, not just you. I’m just limiting my pain exposure, now that you’ve forced me into a lifetime of agony. I’ve got to help myself somehow.” 

Mac, who’d only been looking at Dennis’ knee, couldn’t even bare that anymore. He looked in any direction where Dennis wasn’t in his line of vision. He wanted to say something, protest. But he was mute.

“I do love you,” Dennis frowned. “And if my life wasn’t over, I’d keep doing something about it. But my life is over - I’m dead.”

“You’re not,” Mac frowned. “You never fell. I saved your life.”

“You didn’t save me, Mac,” Dennis’ voice was dark now. “You pushed me into a coffin, 6ft under, and nailed the lid closed. You buried me.”

“Shut your mouth,” Mac snapped, snapping his head to look at Dennis, to see Dennis looking at him back, intently. “I want to help you, Den.”

Dennis looked doubtful, eyes flitting to and from Mac’s gaze. 

“I want you to help, too,” he admitted. “But you can’t. Don’t try and fool yourself otherwise.”

Mac went to reply when they were interrupted by the policewoman he’d first encountered, informing Dennis that the mental health crisis and emergency team had arrived, and wanted to talk to him, alone at first, before talking to Mac and the others.

“I’m not getting sectioned,” Dennis glowered up at the policewoman, who although was rather explicitly feeling a lot of empathy, had to speak with professionalism.

“It’s not for me to say, Dennis,” she spoke softly. “I’d just encourage you to speak honestly.”

“Whatever,” he sniffed, looking into his lap.

Mac stood up from the back of the police van and walked away, about to say something to Dennis, before realising that there was nothing valuable to speak. So he didn’t, and walked away to go and stand with the rest of the gang.

The next hour or so went by agonisingly slowly. Dennis had spoken to the mental health team, and at a few points, the gang could hear him shout or cry. Then the gang had spoken to the mental health team, Mac and Dee leading the conversation. By the time the mental health team had come to a conclusion, the sun was starting to rise, the sky lightening from black to greyish-blue, to pink and orange.

Dennis was to go home. He was given a 24/7 helpline, and they’d talked through a plan of action with him. Dennis was empty, by the time the last of the police were dispersing and the mental health team drove away. He didn’t say a word to anybody besides the mental health team, and stayed silent for a while, as the gang gathered together, ready to get into their respective cars and drive home.

Mac was unhappy. Desperately unhappy. Whilst Dennis had been speaking to the crisis team, Mac had discussed Dennis’ words to him as they’d cried on the road and sat in the van. Dee would’ve been angry if she hadn’t been so upset. Charlie had tuned out, totally overwhelmed by that point. Frank had listened, and although didn’t say anything, Mac could tell that he actually cared.

They were all stood together, and Dennis had been standing motionless, silent, just listening to the conversation. But suddenly, as Dee was mid-sentence, Dennis collided with her, his arms wrapping around her. Dee make a surprised noise, before softening into an upset frown.

“You’re such a dickhead,” she said with nothing but care and emotion in her voice.

“I’m sorry,” Dennis whispered.

Mac’s stomach twisted in selfish jealousy, facial expression wavering as he looked at Dennis hold Dee and listened to Dennis speak to Dee how he wished Dennis would’ve spoken to Mac. Dee looked over Dennis’ shoulder and met Mac’s eye with a regretful and understanding look.

“You sure it’s me you should be apologising to?” Dee asked firmly, rubbing his back.

“Yeah.”

“So you’re not gonna say ‘fuck you’ to me?” Dee asked with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not gonna tell me that I buried you, when I’m trying to help?”

Dennis scoffed and pulled away from Dee, holding his elbows and glaring at Mac.

“Cheers, Mac,” Dennis squinted, nostrils flaring as he looked away. “Dick move.”

Mac opened his mouth incredulously, but said nothing, because he knew there was nothing he could say.

Dee punched Dennis’ arm. He flinched, and although it was a weak punch, it wasn’t surprising that Dennis was hurt by it. Both physically and emotionally. 

“Frank,” Dennis said. “Drive me back to Dee’s.”

“What, why?” Frank asked. “Go with Dee and Mac, with the two who actually live there.”

“I want my Dad,” Dennis tried, but it wasn’t convincing, and Frank saw right through it. He closed his eyes and exhaled. 

“Kid, you haven’t seen me as your dad in nearly ten years,” Frank said, to which Dennis grit his teeth in annoyance. “Dennis, you’ve gotta see that-.......”

Frank kept talking but Dennis wasn’t listening. He was irritated with everyone, Mac most of all, but as this level of annoyance had continued for so long, his brain suddenly grew exhausted of it and dropped the emotion all together, only to replace it with sadness.

And sadness seemed like such a simple word to describe such a simple emotion, but it was correct. He was just fucking sad. Sad that he was alive, and sad that he nearly wasn’t. Sad that he’d said those things to Mac. Sad that he was purposefully rejecting him in front of everybody. Sad that Mac had gone out of his way to help him that evening. Sad that he, himself, was like this.

He looked at the road and scratched his nose awkwardly as he felt tears, more stupid tears, start to brim. But they weren’t angry tears or anguished tears or hyper-emotional tears. 

They were sad tears, that was all.

Mac noticed the change in Dennis and stepped towards him, touching his bicep annoyingly lightly. Dennis looked up without flinching away, catching Mac’s eye for a moment, before glancing away without turning his head.

Frank had stopped talking.

“Let’s go home, Dennis,” Mac said, almost forgetting to add the last half of his name on. He’d become so accustomed to calling Dennis ‘Den’ in affectionate terms, it became a habitual thing to call him that all the time. He caught himself in that instance, however, assuming that Dennis didn’t want that sort of affection from Mac after the words he’d directed at him.

Dennis did want the affection. But he’d fucked it up with Mac, and that was that.

He just nodded, wiping his cheek with the back of his pyjama sleeve that was stained with a streak of cheap red wine.

The gang got into their respective cars as the sky continued to lighten, and drove home.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: main theme of suicide and self harm, vivid description of death, explicit nsfw content
> 
> basically this chapter is pretty distressing

2 _weeks later_

Mac was sat in a plastic chair and all he could smell was antiseptic, bleach and death. He was tired, and it was only 9am, but the sound of overlapping beeping coming from different monitors made his head spin. He’d been awake for barely three hours and he was ready to sleep again already.

Three hours ago, he was sleeping, curled up under the covers. Now, he was sat in a hospital ward, eyes blank and empty and exhausted. Dennis was on the brink of sleep, laying back on the hospital bed, eyes half-open.

Mac wasn’t surprised that they were here, in the hospital. It was the third time in the last two weeks that Dennis had tried and failed to kill himself, not including the incident on the Schuylkill Bridge.

The first time, he pretty much succeeded. Mac had been reading, sat on Dee’s bed. Dee had been in the lounge, watching TV with Artemis. Dennis had been having a bath. Mac only thought to check on him because the sound of him crying for half an hour straight stopped, instantly. Mac wouldn’t have been so concerned if it weren’t for the fact that it was barely 48 hours after the bridge attempt. He’d listened more intently for about a minute, and it was when he couldn’t hear the crying begin once more, he shot out of bed and hammered on the door, and was met with no response.

Dee had heard the banging and rushed in, and without hesitation, helped Mac kick in the door.

Dennis was underwater and there were no bubbles coming from his lips. The water was tinged red - he’d assaulted his forearm again, but that was not the part of that situation Mac was worried about, although it did make his motionless body more eerie.

Mac had rushed forwards and dragged him out of the water onto the bath mat. If Dennis had been conscious, he would’ve been mortified - the whole situation was rather undignified; laying, pretty much dead on the bathroom floor, bleeding, naked.

Mac had panicked because he had no idea what to do. Was he dead? Was he alive? Could he help? Had he lost Dennis? What the fuck did he do?

He was slapping Dennis’ cheek when Dee, with a hysteria to her voice, started reading instructions from her phone as Artemis, who was stood in the doorway, phoned the emergency services.

That was the first time Mac had performed CPR, and he’d hoped it would be the last.

Dennis had coughed and spluttered after a few minutes of rescue breaths and chest compressions and tears and desperation. It was at the point where Mac was giving up, about to fall apart as he half-heartedly pushed up and down on his chest, that he resuscitated. The ambulance arrived shortly afterwards, bursting through the front door of Dee’s flat and hauling Dennis onto a stretcher.

Dennis didn’t cry. Didn’t say a word. Just let what was happening happen, accepting it, with the knowledge that yeah, that didn’t work completely. He’d just have to try something else.

The second time had been barely hours after he’d been discharged from the hospital after the bath incident. Went the long way down his forearms, but this was fruitless. Mac had been listening out for him and keeping an eye on him, so after he’d been in the bathroom a little bit longer than he should’ve been, Mac opened the door with ease as the lock was broken from when it'd been kicked in.

He almost passed out, but didn’t. Called for Dee, who wasn’t accompanied by Artemis that day, but did have use of Google, where she looked up how to prevent somebody from bleeding out. Dennis didn’t cry. Didn’t say a word. An ambulance was called and he was rushed into hospital, again.

Dennis was sectioned for 24 hours that time in the psychiatric facility of the hospital. It was suicide watch, essentially. No shoelaces, no phone, no wires, no sharps, no accessible windows. He was in that room for the whole 24 hours with a member of staff sat in with him the whole time. If he needed to piss, somebody had to watch him.

He wasn’t allowed visitors during that day and night, but he was allowed phone calls. Mac had tried to contact him, by phoning the office, but Dennis had refused to speak to him. Refused point blank.

He didn’t try anything for another week and a half, until that morning. But although he didn’t attempt again until that point, Mac had still been worried, but more so than he was before. Dennis hardly spoke for the rest of those two weeks. Ate the absolute bare minimum. Didn’t shave, showered maybe once, twice maximum. He didn’t leave the apartment and therefore didn’t go to work, which meant Mac didn’t go to work, which meant Dee didn’t go to work, because they’d learned that pulling a man from the brink of death was a two man job. Charlie and Frank couldn’t run the bar by themselves, so Paddy’s had closed, temporarily.

When Mac had woken up at 6am that morning to the strangulated sounds of Dennis choking, he wasn’t surprised in the slightest, but it didn’t mean he was any less distressed. He’d shot out of bed, shoving Dee awake, and rushed into the living room, where Dennis was suspended from the light fixtures by a belt, a fallen down chair just beneath him. His face was red and he was choking, and his legs were kicking a little, although not a lot. Mac didn’t panic this time, not externally. The routine began - Dee phoned an ambulance and Mac got Dennis down, having stood on the chair and holding Dennis’ feeble weight, loosening the belt enough to slip Dennis’ head through.

Dennis didn’t cry. Didn’t say a word.

And the ambulance came and took him into the hospital, immediately putting his neck in a brace as he was wheeled out of the apartment on a stretcher.

The monitors beeping from other patients in the ward were starting to aggravate Mac. Dee was getting a coffee from the nearest hot drinks vending machine, and was most likely on the phone to Frank, telling him that there was another hospital bill to cough up.

Doctors had told Mac and Dee that Dennis was lucky to be alive. Had he been any heavier, the amount of time he was hanging would’ve been enough to have had Dennis’ desired effect. Mac remembered looking Dennis up and down as the doctor had said that, noticing how worryingly bony he had become. Dennis had heard all of this come from the doctor, but hadn’t responded. Hadn’t even acknowledged her.

Dee walked over to Dennis’ bed with two disposable coffee cups, handing one to Mac.

“There wasn’t any milk in the machine, and they’d ran out of sugar sachets,” Dee said in a fairly deadpan voice. She was just as tired as Mac. Just as sad as Mac. Lost just as much hope as Mac had. “Black coffee is better than no coffee.”

Mac sipped the coffee and winced, as did Dee.

“I’m not back for long,” she said, glancing over Dennis who was staring blankly at the ceiling. “Frank’s on his way, I’m gonna meet him in the car park and walk him up. He won’t be here yet, but I need some fresh air and it’s sunny outside. So I’m gonna go and wait for him.”

Mac nodded.

“Yeah, okay,” he said quietly, staring into his black coffee, listening to Dee without looking at her.

“Dennis,” Dee said, not to get his attention necessarily because Dennis was almost certainly already listening, but more to let him know that she was addressing him now, not Mac. “Do you want anything, little bro?”

Dennis didn’t respond, but Dee continued to speak as if he had.

“Yeah, I know we’re twins. First is worst though, right?” She forced a chuckle. Mac looked up, to see Dee’s face, which was contorted, as if she was going to cry, and paused for a moment to regain some dignity. “I can’t lose you, asshole. Hang in there.”

She walked off, hesitantly at first, before she was practically running out of the ward.

Mac sighed quietly, feeling an overwhelming weight on his shoulders. He never thought he’d experience heartbreak like this in his life - to be told by the man he loved that they couldn’t be together was bad enough, but to then watch him almost die at his own hand four times in a fortnight had dissolved him.

He closed his eyes, and held his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees as he hunched over in the feeble plastic chair.

“Mac.”

Mac snapped up, awake, alert, shocked. Dennis had croaked his name, and when Mac looked up, he could see that although Dennis hadn’t moved and was still staring at the ceiling, tears were spilling from his eyes and were rolling down the sides of his head.

Mac swallowed, mouth dry.

“I’m so sorry,” he spoke, his voice strained and hoarse, not only because he’d try to hang himself and fucked his neck and throat, he hadn’t spoken at all since Mac and Dee has found him.

Mac nodded and sniffed, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, Dennis,” he said almost silently.

Dennis’ lip wobbled. He squeezed his face, trying to compose himself.

“You don’t believe me, right?”

“Not really.”

Dennis exhaled a chuckle, wincing as his very gentle laugh jolted his head which also jolted his neck, that was still in the brace, although it wasn’t apparently broken.

“I’m not going to do this again,” he whispered, and he meant it. But Mac didn’t look up.

“You’re only saying that so you don’t get sectioned again,” Mac sighed a small, hopeless sigh.

“Mac, please,” Dennis tried, the pitch of his voice a little higher, a little more wobbly.

Mac looked up then, and Dennis had directed his eyes to him, looking honest, looking tired. Mac could tell that he was looking at Dennis again. Not the shell of Dennis that was left after Mac pulled him down from the railings. The real Dennis, the hurting Dennis, the whole Dennis.

“I don’t care if I get sectioned, man,” Dennis said, lifting his arm that had been laying at his side. He stretched out his fingers towards Mac, before letting his arm flop, limp. “I’m just tired of trying and nothing working, and every time I’ve fuckin’ brushed the other side, it’s been cold and empty and black and... I mean, I think that’s what I wanted before. But I don’t think it is now.”

Mac watched Dennis’ hand weakly hit the bed, his fingers limp for a moment, before clutching at the flimsy sheet on the hospital mattress. He wanted to hold Dennis’ hand desperately, and nearly did, before being reminded of his words two weeks prior, how they couldn’t be together, how it hurt Dennis. He clenched his hand into a fist to prevent himself from gripping Dennis’ hand, exhaling shakily.

“That’s a sudden change of heart,” Mac commented weakly. “Explain.”

“I don’t wanna be here still, I won’t bullshit you,” if his throat and neck weren’t so fucked, his tone of voice would be his usual, Dennis-like tone of voice. “I just can’t be bothered. And I don’t want to spend an eternity in a fucking bottomless void, so I’d rather suffer here for a bit longer than suffer even more and not be here.”

Mac would usually argue that there wasn’t a bottomless void, that it was Heaven and Hell, but he recognised that if he told Dennis that there was something certain afterwards, Dennis would probably try again but with more defiance. Because of course, Dennis would think he’d go to Heaven.

He wouldn’t, but then again, Mac didn’t think that any of the gang would at that point. Not even himself.

His nose twitched.

“I also don’t like hospitals,” Dennis admitted. “If I pussy-dicked about again and didn’t finish the job, it’d be another hospital visit and almost definitely another section.”

“But you still don’t wanna be here,” Mac commented, sadly.

“Would you?” Dennis spoke quietly now, and any casual tone of voice had slipped. “If you were me, and you had my brain and... lived my life,” he said obscurely, although Mac knew exactly what he was referring to. “Would you want to be here?”

Mac wanted to say ‘yes’, but it would’ve been a lie.

“I don’t know,” he whispered pathetically, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t know, Den.”

“Dennis,” Dennis corrected.

Mac felt a pang in his chest. More than a pang - a blunt knife, rupturing his flesh and carving through the meat and bones, targeting the heart.

“Right,” he frowned deeply. That was Dennis’ way of confirming that he and Mac were finished. And although he wasn’t angry about it (or was trying not to be), it hurt immensely. They hadn’t fallen out, they hadn’t stopped feeling stuff. Or maybe Dennis had.

That thought hurt too much, more than Mac was willing to contend with, so he pushed it violently out of his train of thought.

“You should book another therapy session,” Mac commented, empty.

“Thanks, mom,” Dennis narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

Mac sipped his coffee, and now, was grateful for the lack of creamer and sugar. His usual coffee would’ve comforted him, and somehow he thought that being comforted right now would finish him off. He gulped at least half the cup in a couple of seconds flat.

“Leave a drop at the bottom, I’m thirsty,” Dennis ordered, talking to Mac the way he talked to him in the suburbs, before his breakdown, before they admitted to each other their feelings, before all of this. Mac’s jaw clenched and he felt the muscles in his face tighten.

Dennis was going to revert back to being repressed and angry and cold towards Mac, even after all of this.

Mac looked Dennis in the eye, swallowing the rest of the drink. Dennis looked pissed off, but said nothing.

“Fuck you,” Mac said quietly. Dennis looked away.

Mac thought that comment was warranted. Dennis had said the same to him on the bridge, and most days since. Now he could feel how much it hurt.

God, Mac hoped it hurt.

He wasn’t angry before, but he was now. He crushed the disposable cup and slammed it down on the table beside Dennis’ bed, before standing up and walking away, as calmly as possible, as normally as possible. Nothing could disguise the look of thundering anger and upset and God, everything, on his face however. Mac had never had a poker face, least of all today.

As he stormed out of the ward, he collided with Dee, who shoved him firmly back.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” Dee asked, angered for a moment before looking at Mac properly, seeing the look on his face, and rapidly becoming quite concerned. Not only was Frank with her, Charlie was as well.

“Nothing,” Mac looked over Dee’s shoulder blankly, trying to put the lid on the bubbling pot before it overflowed and stained the stove top.

“Bullshit,” said Dee, but Mac didn’t stick around long enough to respond, breaking into a run briefly to get away from the questioning.

He felt like crying, but it was also the last thing he wanted to do. His run slowed to a jog which slowed to a walk, and he found himself out of breath but not from the exercise, more from the exertion and effort it took to hold himself together.

It didn’t take long for him to exit the building, and barely seconds passed after he exited the main doors and was faced with the morning sun, before he let himself react in his way, the Mac way, the way he needed.

“Fuck!” He yelled through gritted teeth, kicking his legs at nothing in particular. He needed a beer bottle to throw, a room to destroy, a wall to punch in a more convenient place than a fucking hospital. “Fucking FUCK!”

He wasn’t crying because this was more frustration than anything. He slapped his face back and forth a few times, before stamping on the ground as hard as he could, hoping the contact with the concrete would hurt his foot.

Footsteps approached him, so he looked in their direction. Charlie was exiting the front doors and walking up to him.

“Calm down, bro,” Charlie said firmly, holding his hands up to Mac, ushering him into a calm state. It didn’t work.

“Charlie dude, talking to me right now isn’t a good idea,” Mac warned, voice shaking. “I’m pissed off and you’re in punching distance and I don’t wanna sock you in the face because you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Well, don’t punch me,” Charlie half-smiled. “Mostly because you’ll regret it. Seriously though dude, why are you so... this?”

“Dennis, dude, he’s being a fucking asshole,” Mac closed his eyes in annoyance, clenching his fists and forcing them to his side as he exhaled, before sniffing a breath through his nose. “I wanna slap him, but I wanna fuck him, and I wanna never talk to him again, but I wanna spend my life with him, and I wanna hate him, but Jesus, I fucking love him, and it’s dicking my head to smithereens, I swear to God.”

Charlie listened to him shout, watched him gesticulate violently.

“What did he do?” Charlie asked tentatively. “Besides trying to kill himself again, which is starting to get frustrating, if I’m honest.”

“Well yeah, it’s frustrating but in the sad way,“ Mac exhaled sharply, trying his best to cool off. “You’d think I would’ve been this angry when he told me on the bridge that he didn’t wanna be with me. I should’ve fucking believed him and processed it then, but I didn’t, because I’m a total God damn idiot.”

“I don’t think that makes you an idiot?” Charlie raised an eyebrow, noticing that Mac was calming down. He put his hands on Mac’s shoulders and steered him towards a vacant bench that was barely meters away from them. They sat down. “I didn’t think he was being serious either. Uh, yeah, nobody did? I don’t think.”

“He was being serious, apparently.”

“Go on.”

“He was talking to me, like, actually talking to me properly for the first time in two fucking weeks,” Mac’s eye twitched involuntarily. “Not about normal shit, but he basically said he wasn’t gonna try and top himself again, although it didn’t mean he was happy being alive...? Something like that, I don’t know. So I said something like clarifying that, like... uh, ‘so you don’t wanna be here’, and he just threw back at me like ‘would you?’. And I mean, I didn’t know what to say, you know?”

Charlie exhaled a sigh.

“If Ms Klinsky had done a number on me when i was 14, and then I had Frank, Barbara and Dee to go back home to afterwards, and then have all the other shit he struggles with? Nah, I don’t think I’d wanna fucking be here.”

“Please tell me you didn’t say that.”

“‘Course I didn’t, I’m not an idiot,” Mac snapped. “I said ‘I don’t know, Den’, which apparently was the last thing I should say.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

“Wh-“

“I called him ‘Den’, dude,” Mac said. “I call him that in a kinda gay way at this point, we both know that. It’s like an unsaid thing. But yeah, he picked up on me and corrected me by just saying ‘Dennis’. Like a total fuckin’ jerk off.”

Charlie fiddled with a thread that was coming loose from a tear in his jeans.

“That’s gonna hurt,” he said quietly.

“It did,” Mac said. “Then he like ordered me to save him a drop of coffee because he was thirsty, and sure okay, if he wasn’t being a total jizz stain, I’d save him some. But he said it in such an impatient and demanding way, after shutting me down, after being really earnest with me? I’m done with it, man.”

“No you’re not.”

“Okay, I’m not,” Mac sat back in frustration, erratically messing up his already unstyled hair. “I don’t know if I ever will be. I’m like, disgustingly in love with him. God knows fucking why.”

“I couldn’t tell you bro, Dennis isn’t exactly boyfriend material,” Charlie joked in an attempt to lighten the mood. “He’s good looking, though. Usually.”

“I’m not boyfriend material either though, dude,” Mac sighed, trailing his fingers down his face. “And I just... Whatever. He doesn’t want me.”

“Well, don’t know that-“

“Charlie,” Mac snapped incredulously. “Yes, I do.”

Charlie chewed his lip and scrunched up his face in thought.

“I think,” he said carefully. “He’s just having a shitty time, and this is damage imitating.”

“Limitation, dude. Close,” Mac corrected, too tired to joke. “I don’t know. I just wanna go home right now, whilst Dee and... Dennis, aren't there. Time alone would be great right now,” Charlie raised an offended eyebrow, to which Mac made a correction. “That wasn’t a dig, dude. Not about you- I meant in the way that like, this is gonna be the only time I have the flat to myself. I wanna make the most of it.”

“Scream, listen to embarrassingly depressing music, jerk off,” Charlie listed.

“Shut your mouth, that’s not it.”

It was, but Charlie didn’t need to know that.

“What else would you need space to do that you wouldn’t do around anybody else?” Charlie raised an eyebrow, to which Mac narrowed his eyes.

Cry.

“... Stuff!” Mac raised his arms above his head. “Practice karate without being fuckin’ vilified by Dennis?”

“Your first response to your gross gay crush rejecting you after trying to kill himself for the fourth time is to do karate?” Charlie spluttered. “Nice.”

Mac opened his mouth to protest, before closing it, shrinking into his frame a little bit.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, but not in the comedic and quipping way the conversation would usually end. In a way to say ‘you’re right and I’m in pain’. Charlie must’ve understood, because he sat back in the bench beside Mac and leaned against his shoulder against Mac’s bicep.

“Drive home in Frank’s car. Dee can drop us to her flat and then we can go home from there later,” Charlie said after a short moment of quiet.

“Frank would kill me.”

“Nah, not under the circumstances,” Charlie shrugged. “I’ll take the shouting, it’s cool man.”

Mac looked unsure to begin with, biting his lip and fiddling with his fingers.

“I don’t feel like I should leave Dennis like this-“

“You’re not the one leaving, dude,” Charlie said quietly. Mac looked up, met with a frown from Charlie. “Just go, okay? Think of yourself, please?”

Mac was a little troubled by the level of sincerity in Charlie’s voice. His voice was a little softer than usual, but not in a pleasant way - he sounded troubled. Concerned. It wasn’t a usual tone to enter Charlie’s voice at such an intrinsically complex level.

Mac nodded and stood up, silently. He was about to walk away, before stopping, realising he needed-

“Keys, here,” Charlie handed them to Mac. “Frank makes me look after them these days, he’s always leaving shit around and then forgetting where they are.”

Mac took the keys and took a moment to nod at Charlie, who offered a sheepish and forced smile. Mac didn’t bother to return it - what was the point?

He found Frank’s car and drove back to Dee’s flat.

•••

_It was hot. Mac was hot, beads of sweat pearling on his chest. Breathing laboured. The smell of red wine and mint bearing down from above, from slick lips, from quickened breaths. A whispered voice muttered to Mac, barely inches from his face._

_”Fuck sake, dude,” said the voice. It was low, it was warm. “I love this- you. All of this. All of you.”_

_Lips connected with Mac’s. Chapped lips._

_Dennis’ lips._

_He was kissing Mac, apparently, if you could even call it kissing. Tongues, teeth, lips, mouths. Bare chests and shaking arms. Messy hair. Sweat. Heat. Desperation._

_”I missed you,” Mac choked out as Dennis parted his lips from Mac’s to connect with his neck, down to his chest, nibbling and scraping Mac’s tan skin._

_”I was never gone, baby.”_

_Mac’s breath hitched. Every touch from Dennis felt like electricity, a jolt to Mac’s system, to his stomach, to his naval. He always had been hopeless at controlling how into this shit he was, and as usual, his body was betraying his desire to ride this out as long as possible._

_Dennis either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He didn’t mock or poke fun - he trailed his tongue up Mac’s chest with the lightness of a feather, reaching his collarbone, letting his lips suction on the bone. Mac gasped. Jesus fucking Christ._

_Dennis tilted his head up to look at Mac, eyes lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed. He held eye contact with Mac for a moment, brushing his thumb over his collarbone in a soothing way. His parted lips turned into a smirk, eyes twinkling. Mac quirked an eyebrow in confusion for less than a second, before realising why Dennis was looking at him like that._

_He felt a hand trace briefly at the skin of his abdomen before reaching down and gripping the glaringly obvious bulge in his jeans. Mac bit his lip in embarrassment, for one, but in absolute sheer fucking excitement as well. His head flopped back against the pillow, because apparently they were in a bed, and regardless of his desperate attempts to calm the fuck down, his throat let out a stubborn whine. Effeminate, exposed. Mac didn’t mind._

_Dennis chuckled a very Dennis-like chuckle, but not in a mocking way, more in a warm, surprised way._

_”I’m that good?” Dennis laughed lightly, to which Mac batted his arm, opening his eyes with a flutter and looking back down at Dennis._

_”Obviously. Asshole,” Mac allowed himself to laugh a bit, shaking his head a little. “Don’t act like you don’t know that.”_

_”Dude, we’ve only made out,” Dennis teased, but not with bad intention, still in the same warm tone. “It’s kind of impressive.”_

_”Shut your mouth,” Mac breathed, rolling his eyes._

_Dennis grinned infectiously, and Mac swore as he did, his eye bags were less prominent and his lips weren’t bleeding and bitten and his face was healthy instead of near-skeletal. He was Dennis again._

_Dennis fiddled with the button of Mac’s jeans, sitting back so he could unfasten them with more ease. His hands were fumbling, and he chuckled to himself, cursing light-heartedly under his breath as he struggled. Mac pursed his lips to prevent an amused smile._

_The button was undone, the fly was pulled down, and in an instant, Dennis was lowered over Mac with a familiar, overwhelmed and loving face. Lips parted, puppy dog eyes - as if he couldn’t believe what was happening, as if he couldn’t believe Mac was really his. Finally his._

_He attached his lips to Mac’s again, slow and dirty. Barely seconds had passed before Dennis’ fingers were pulling at the elastic of Mac’s underwear, slipping down slowly, God, agonisingly slowly. Mac’s breathing quickened into Dennis’ mouth, which at this point wasn’t even kissing Mac, just open against his, sharing breath. Dennis’ hand reached Mac’s dick, teasing him at the base with the tips of his fingers. He chuckled against Mac as he noticed him twitch irritatingly obviously. Mac could feel Dennis’ breathy laugh against his tongue, could feel the curve of his lips, could feel his hand finally wrap around his cock, wasting no time in massaging stripes up and down, slowly, gently, lovingly._

_Mac didn’t care about making noise at that point. His throat went to moan before cutting itself off with a shaking gasp. His toes curled a little, and his hands instinctively went to grab Dennis, grab him anywhere so long as Mac’s hands were on the man he loved._

_The man he loved._

_”Fuck, dude...“ Mac moaned quietly into Dennis’ mouth, whose hand proceeded to hold a little tighter and jerk a little faster. Mac gasped, throwing his head back with a groan._

_”Fuck you.”_

_Mac froze. The voice was cold but it was still Dennis’. Mac snapped his head up to see Dennis’ deadpan expression stare at Mac with dead eyes, empty eyes. His hand had stopped moving._

_”Wh-... what? Den?”_

_”Dennis,” Dennis snapped, and Mac recoiled, hands falling off Dennis’ body. Dennis was looking intently at Mac with an unwavering stare, his expression totally void._

_Mac blinked and opened his eyes and gasped with a wince. Dennis’ eye bags were deep and bruise-like, his hair was missing clumps, his cheeks were sunken. His expression wasn’t blank anymore, it was an agonising, desperate, lost expression with tears brimming at the waterline of his eyes._

_”Dennis-“_

_”Fuck you,” Dennis choked out, jaw trembling, a tear spilling from his eye._

_Mac blinked and opened his eyes and felt the most visceral fear he’d ever felt in his life, pushing himself away from Dennis on his elbows. Dennis was soaking wet, hair stuck to his forehead, eyelashes clumped together. The same facial expression but his breathing was faster and his tears were rapid._

_”Den, baby-“_

_”Fuck you,” Dennis said but it was barely decipherable as his voice gargled, and suddenly he was gasping for breath and water was dripping from his hair onto Mac’s face. “F- ck-ck-“ he was suffocating but made no attempt to stop himself. Mac watched motionless, eyes wide and mouth parted in a trembling O shape._

_Mac blinked and opened his eyes and Dennis was blue and writhing, the veins of his neck pulsing. He was convulsing but there was no sound of desperate breathing this time. Mac gasped and suddenly his heart was racing and his breathing was rapid and panicky, but he didn’t move, he didn’t help, he just lay there._

_”Dennis!-“_

_”F-!” Dennis opened his mouth to respond and water gushed out from through his lips and pouring onto Mac, splashing onto his forehead, chin, lips, eyes, and now Mac was struggling for breath through the water gargling from Dennis’ lips._

_Mac didn’t blink._

_Dennis’ eyes were becoming bloodshot and his lips were almost white they were so pale. He choked, body writhing in what Mac could only assume to be agony, coughing over and over again, each cough bringing a new surge of water that was slowly starting to smell like cheap wine._

_Mac was paralysed but tears were streaming from his face as he took intermittent gasps through the water._

_It suddenly stopped as Dennis’ body went limp and fell onto Mac._

_The body was light but heavy, unmoving, cold, wet. Mac opened his mouth to scream but nothing escaped his lips, breathing erratic and desperate and terrified. Mac blinked._

“Dennis!-“ Mac yelped desperately, body snapping up. It was dark. He was dry. Dennis wasn’t there. “Fuck, Jesus fucking fuck, what the fuck was- what the f-“

“Mac?” 

That was Dee’s voice, thick with sleep but alert, concerned.

Mac’s chest heaved and he gasped for air, desperate for air, he needed air, he was losing air God, God he couldn’t breathe. He tried to speak but the words were caught in his throat as his chest shuddered, and apparently there were tears coming from his eyes because he could feel them drop onto his hands. Gushing from his eyes, so fast and rapidly he could barely even make out a silhouette in the dark room.

“Mac, what the Hell happened?” Dee grabbed his shoulder frantically but Mac couldn’t face words even if he could speak them. He was slowly finding that he could breathe a little easier, but that didn’t stop the tears or the sheer panic wracking his body. 

Dee didn’t say anything else for a moment, simply held Mac’s should with a firm grip in some sort of attempt to ‘ground’ him a little (a term she’d read online). A few minutes passed.

“Where’s Dennis?” Mac choked, looking around frantically now he could see a little clearer - he was in Dee’s bed, in his pyjamas, and Dee was sitting cross-legged beside him. 

“He’s still in hospital, idiot,” Dee frowned. 

“He’s not home?”

“No...?” She raised a confused eyebrow. “They’re keeping him in until his neck’s stable and they’ve assessed him, all the routine shit. Do you not remember me telling you when I got back earlier?”

Mac shook his head, taking a jagged breath in. Dennis was alive.

As alive as Dennis could be.

Dee reached for something on the bedside table, before handing it to Mac.

“Drink this,” Dee handed him a glass of water.

Mac’s nostrils flared and without a second passing, he grabbed the glass with an auto-piloted hand, gripping it shakily before lobbing it across the room. It smashed against the wall, shards bursting and falling onto Dee’s dresser and carpet with a light clatter. Water splashed, before seeping down the wall.

Mac trembled and closed his eyes.

“Fuck you.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: use of the c bomb once at the end, graphic hallucinations, and insensitive discussions about suicide

It had been a calmer week, and Mac had been eternally grateful that he’d been given some respite from Dennis’ constant berating, suicide attempts or failed attempts at pleasant conversation. Dee had visited every day - Mac had not. In the eight days that Dennis was kept in, Mac visited on two of the days, and for those two visits, the conversation was limited, awkward, and driven by Dennis’ complaints about being forced to eat the disgusting hospital meals. Mac had offered to bring him some food he enjoyed, but Dennis had refused immediately. Said something about maintaining physical perfection, if he couldn’t have perfection with anything else.

The truth was, Dennis wasn’t perfect in any sense of the word. He never had been and he probably never would be. Dennis didn’t have a perfect body, but then again, Mac didn’t know what a perfect body would be. He did know, however, that it wouldn’t be undernourished and atrociously pale. Dennis didn’t have a perfect mind, but then again, Mac didn’t know what a perfect mind would be. He did know, however, that it wouldn’t be a mind that makes you attempt suicide four times in a fortnight, push away anybody close to you, or have a warped complex of superiority.

Dennis wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t a criticism - Mac wasn’t perfect either. He’d gone from being rampantly homophobic to realising he had big gay feelings for his roommate, and his body shape was always changing but still never quite right. Under that analogy, the problematic and dysfunctional men would be perfect for each other...

They weren’t. Dennis was making that abundantly clear with each day that passed.

Part of Mac assumed it was because he had that personality disorder, or whatever it was. Pushing people away was a massive part of that. But the other part of Mac assumed that it was because Dennis just didn’t love Mac the way he’d said, that Mac had been a pawn in his ever evolving game of seduction and now? He was letting him go, like every other romantic interest in his life.

‘Separate entirely’.

Mac still loved him, though. Dennis could separate as much as he liked - he could move out, fly across the country and settle down as if Mac had never existed, and Mac would still love him. Harder and stronger with every second that passed without him. And sure, that was probably toxic but Dennis was intoxicating and Mac was poisoned and there simply wasn’t an antidote. It was fucking destroying and the poison was seeping into his system and it was tearing Mac apart from the insides; a slow failure of organs, all building up to the grand finale - the failure of the heart.

Mac knew it was coming. He was getting weaker as his veins pumped the poison relentlessly around his body, and as he grew weaker to the failures of his insides, he grew weaker to fight off the need for Dennis’ reciprocation and validation.

Mac blamed his reaction to Dennis taking his first steps into Dee’s apartment on this. He could’ve done the normal thing and stayed sat on the sofa, scrolling through his phone aimlessly and flashed Dennis a welcoming smile. He did the opposite of normal; Dee unlocked the front door and walked in, closely followed by Dennis, who was wearing a soft looking neck brace. His eyes looked uncertain as he looked around the flat, eyes landing on Mac.

He offered a smile so small it was barely recognisable as a smile. Mac bit the inside of his lip to stop it from wobbling, and forced a smile back.

“Hi, Dennis.”

Dennis closed the door behind him and massaged his forehead with the palms of his hands.

“Hey, Mac,” Dennis sighed. “Did you enjoy the vacation?”

Mac’s brow tweaked into a frown.

“Don’t be a douchebag,” Mac snapped, standing up from the sofa. Dee looked at him apologetically, throwing her keys down on the dresser that sat in the hallway of her apartment. “I missed you, actually.”

“Ah, yes, that’d explain why you only visited me twice.”

“He’s not your mom, Dennis,” Dee spoke with a subtle venom to her voice. “It’s not Mac’s fuckin’ responsibility to coddle you on the daily.”

“Hospitals are morbid and horrible. I didn’t like seeing you like that, okay?” Mac scratched the back of his head, walking over to him. Dee made her way into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Dennis looked him up and down with an expression Mac couldn’t quite place. Was he upset? Angry? Remorseful? Hateful?

“Whatever,” Dennis licked his bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth, nostril twitching as he looked away.

Upset. Definitely.

“Do I get to hug you, then?” Mac asked quietly, with a doubting raise to his brow.

“Depends on if you’re going to be weird about it.”

“What do you mean, weird about it?”

“I mean, weird about it. Are you gonna hug me and leave it at that, or is it going to turn into a whole romantic thing where you go all soppy and gay?” Dennis asked calmly, although he couldn’t bring himself to look back in Mac’s direction.

Mac’s jaw clenched, stiffened, hearing and ignoring Dee’s warning to calm down from the kitchen.

Without hesitation, Mac lifted his hand and struck Dennis across the cheek. It wasn’t hard, it wasn’t fuelled by hatred, but Dennis got the message, wincing with a groan.

“Asshole, my neck’s in a brace!” His eyes widened as he returned his stare back to Mac, resting his chin firmly atop the brace to steady himself.

“Yeah, whose fault is that?” Mac shot back.

“About what? My neck being in a brace or getting slapped across the fuckin’ face?”

“Either, Dennis. Whichever helps you sleep at night,” Mac walked away and sat back down on the sofa, picking his phone back up and reverting back to scrolling aimlessly, as if nothing had happened. Except something had happened, and Mac was using all his focus and emotional energy to will the sting of tears at his waterline to stay in his fucking eyes and not fall. His fingers were shaking and he could barely keep his thumb on the screen, so he put his phone down and masked the shaking by twiddling his thumbs, looking at them with as nonchalant an expression as possible.

“God damn drama queen,” Dennis tried to say sourly after a long moment of silence, but his voice broke as he said ‘queen’. He walked off into Dee’s bedroom and went to slide the doors closed, but Dee skipped in from the kitchen, a segment of orange between her teeth. She put her hand between the doors, preventing them from closing.

“Nah, nope, no way,” Dee snapped, pushing the doors back open. “Nice try, dickhead. Door stays open.”

“I want to wash,” Dennis said almost silently, stubbornly. “How am I supposed to do that with the doors open? You wanna watch me take a bath?”

“Uh, yeah. Either me or Mac watches - fat chance you’re gonna be in the bathroom alone, let alone my bedroom.”

Mac couldn’t see, but he could practically hear the furious scowl on Dennis’ face contort in rage as Dee looked at him with her very matter-of-fact Dee-like expression.

“Do I have to remind you that I’m 39 years old? I’m not a fucking baby, I can have a bath without the world ending.”

“Besides the time you drowned yourself and had to be resuscitated,” Dee said casually. “But that was a long time ago, that doesn’t count- oh wait it was literally in the last two weeks.”

“Dee-“

“Me or Mac. Who’s it gonna be?” She snapped. “It’s up to you, but it’s one of us if you’re that desperate to wash. Unless you were just gonna lock yourself away and carve up your arms again?”

Mac winced at the lack of sensitivity in Dee’s voice, turning from his position to look at the arguing twins. Dennis looked wounded, but angry, but still somehow blank all at once. He caught Mac’s eye and had a deeply confused look in his eye.

“I was just going to bath-“

“Oh no, that’s right, silly me! You wouldn’t have locked yourself in there to cut yourself, you would’ve locked yourself in there to kill yourself, finish the job. What was the plan this time? Smack your head against the tiles? Punch the mirror and swallow the glass?” Dee sniped, and Dennis physically recoiled, a dangerous look on his face. “Don’t look at me like that, as if I said something too fucked up. You’ve ascended being fucked up Dennis - you’ve tried to off yourself four times and then dropped the dude you’re grossly in love with like it was nothing. What the fuck is wrong with-“

“Dee, shut your fucking mouth,” Mac snapped lowly.

“Oh, like you’re not thinking the same thing. I’m tired of him resisting us trying to keep him safe-“

“Right, and listing ways he could seal the deal and then crossing the line of his emotional barriers was your amazing plan to ‘keep him safe’? I mean, fucking Hell, Dee,” Mac spat, feeling an anger within him bubble after hearing the way she spoke to Dennis.

“I can fight my own battles, Mac,” Dennis said as calmly as he could, sniffing in an attempt to maintain his dignity. He didn’t look at Mac when addressing him, though, staring at a water stain on the wallpaper.

Mac rolled his eyes, and Dee interjected.

“You’re acting as if you didn’t just smack the man, Mac. I mean, pick a battle, asshole,” Dee still spoke in a firm voice but the spite melted away instantly as she turned back to look at Mac.

“I smacked him because he said something shitty,” Mac defended, standing up from his position on the sofa and walking over to Dee, looking her straight in the eye with a dangerously serious expression. “Not because he’s mentally ill.”

“Not mentally ill,” Dennis interjected. Dee and Mac both snapped their heads to glare at him - Dennis shrunk in his frame and took a step back, sitting on the foot of the bed as Mac and Dee remained in the doorway.

“So you want to let him bath on his own, huh?”

“No, I’m not a fucking idiot,” Mac said obviously. “But there was a gazillion ways to handle that, and you chose the one that was probably the worst.”

“Sorry, who’s the one who studied a Psych Major?” Dee raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, who’s the one that’s lived with Dennis for more than 15 years and has literally spent most waking minutes with him?” Mac quipped back. “It’s not a fucking competition, Dee, just have a bit of empathy. He’s your blood.”

Dee glowered at Mac, before licking her lips and averting her glare to the floor.

“Me or Mac, Dennis?” She asked with a whisper.

“Mac,” Dennis answered immediately, to which Dee spluttered dubiously. She didn’t retaliate though - she threw her hands up in defeat and walked back into the kitchen, presumably to finish making her drink and eating her orange.

The thick atmosphere muffled any potential words between the two men, who were now alone - relatively. Mac stepped forwards and closed the bedroom doors behind him. Now they were alone totally, but that only made the silence more deafening.

Mac cleared his throat and spoke up, after at least a whole minute of absolutely nothing.

“Stupid bird,” Mac says, chewing the inside of his lip, stealing a dangerously quick glance at Dennis, who sniffed a laugh, before coughing to mask it. It felt painfully reminiscent to Mac.

“Looks like you’re babysitting me, then,” Dennis said casually. Mac looked at him properly then, looking at Dennis who was looking down as far as he could with the neck brace, forcing his eyebrows to stop frowning or looking hyper-emotional. It seemed stupid that he’d do that at this point - there was really no pretending that he wasn’t emotional after spending the past eight days in hospital after his fourth suicide attempt. What else was there to protect? What other barriers were there to hold up?

“Yeah, looks like it,” Mac offered him a smile that said ‘sorry we’re in this position’. Dennis’ eyebrow twitched and he nodded, contorting his own lips into a smile that said ‘so am I’. Of course, this communication wasn’t verbal. Dennis seemed incapable of being truly candid in the last few weeks, and Mac didn’t want to push any boundaries by putting that conversation out there. He didn’t dare.

“You gonna watch me whilst I’m in the bath, or are you gonna give me some decency and turn your back?” Dennis asked, speaking words that one would expect to be riddled with attitude but were actually spoken without a lick of negativity. It was just a question. Mac appreciates it, to an extent, but also felt hollow upon hearing the lack of ‘Dennis’ in the words.

“You know the answer to that, Dennis,” Mac sighed, almost resentful at the fact that he’d ask such an obvious question which had such an obvious answer that he would so obviously hate. “Yeah, I’m gonna watch you. And no, I won’t ‘make it weird’, so don’t even try it with that,” Mac cracked a knuckle by squeezing a finger, before walking into the bathroom. Dennis stood up and followed.

“Mac,” Dennis said, standing in the bathroom door as he watched Mac turn on the taps of the bath, assuming that Dennis would want Mac to do it for him. Dennis didn’t really mind, because Mac always got the temperature right when he had run the odd bath for Dennis in the past, but that was besides the point - it was a little bit irritating that Mac just decided that that’s what was happening that day.

It didn’t irritate him enough to say anything, though. So he didn’t. He simply let Mac’s name hang on dead air for a moment as Mac ran his hands beneath the running water, waiting for it to get up to temperature. The water looked clean and inviting and it flowed over Mac’s calloused fingers, that, Dennis noticed, were a little blistered around the nail. He must’ve been biting or picking at the skin, Hell, maybe both. It made Dennis’ stomach drop in something reminiscent of guilt.

“Mac.”

“What, Dennis?” Mac asked, and he sounded painfully tired. It tensed his tone of voice as he spoke on the exhalation of a sigh, and although the words weren’t lacking in emotion, they were lacking in the emotion that Dennis wanted to be on the receiving end of. He wanted Mac to convince him that Dennis could be loved without pain, he wanted Mac to feel sad that Dennis had been in the place he’d been, he wanted Mac to be emotional enough to make Dennis reconsider sensibility and follow his aching, crumbling heart before it fell apart completely.

“I...”

“God, what is it?” Mac said with exhaustion and pleading. It was still glaringly void of what Dennis needed and what Dennis craved.

Dennis closed his eyes and tried to sort himself out. This was hard. Too hard.

_Yeah, whose fault is that?_

“I didn’t mean that,” Dennis said, forcing nonchalance into his voice. “What I said earlier, I didn’t really mean it.”

Mac looked over his shoulder with a wary frown, before turning away again. He put the plug into the bath and watched it start to pool at the bottom of the tub, electing to ignore what Dennis was saying. Standing up straight, he opened the bathroom cabinet, ignoring Dennis looking at him in the reflection of the mirror, and pulled out Dennis’ bottle of lavender essential oil.

_“I’ll run you a bath with your favourite essential oil that you keep for when you feel like you need a treat - you know, the lavender one?”_

Dennis’ stomach twinged.

“The weird thing, I mean. The thing- the weird. The thing I said about you making things weird- are you listening to me?” Dennis huffed, watching Mac pour a few drops of the temptingly scented lavender oil. The oil hit the warm water and erupted with a comforting scent.

“Yeah, I’m listening,” Mac said quietly, running his hands through the water that was beginning to fill the bath. It was crystal clear - no bubbles, because Mac knew that Dennis hated the sound of them popping in his ears. He knelt down next to the bath and continued to swirl his hands through the liquid. The sickly smelling, weirdly pure looking water. Mac felt sick. Dennis had been laying in this very bathtub barely weeks before, and the haunting image of him laying under the water, blue and motionless, blood seeping into the water from the litany of cuts on his wrists - the image was imprinted into the forefront of his mind.

He’d looked so still. It would’ve been peaceful if it hadn’t been so fucking deafening.

Mac’s hand stilled in the water. He felt a quiver in his chest.

“Then why won’t you talk to me?”

“Because I don’t know what you want me to say, dude.”

The bizarrely light weight of his body as he was pulled from the water. The lack of pulse. The coolness of his lips as Mac gave him recovery breaths. The multiple minutes of compressing his chest. The sound of gargling as he choked on a forced breath, hacking up the water from his lungs.

“Anything. Say fucking anything, Mac.”

Mac inhaled a breath that wasn’t supposed to be shaky, pulling his hand hurriedly out of the water. It felt cold, it felt hot, it felt acidic, like it was burning his flesh down to the bone.

The poison creeped its way towards his chest. He could feel it, curling around his rib cage, threatening to grow closer to the very thing Mac didn’t want to lose, but could feel himself losing.

Mac turned off the tap.

“Your bath’s ready. You should get in.”

Mac could feel the burning of a frustrated, heartbroken, clueless glare bore into the back of his head. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing that was threatening to quicken, swallowing down the foreign and confusing and destructing feeling that was arising in him, before standing up straight and walking to the toilet, closing the lid and sitting on it.

He could feel Dennis looking at him still, but he ardently stared into his lap. At that point, he started to understand Dennis and some of his ways - one of note, was forcing his deeply troubled and emotional face into one of nonchalance and lack of emotion, a skill he’d learned from Dennis and mastered as he sat there, looking worryingly casual to the perceivers eye.

“Are you just gonna stand there, bro?” Mac finally looked up to see Dennis with an unsullied frown, standing in the same position that he had been for the last five minutes - in the doorway of the bathroom.

Dennis stepped forwards from the door and closed it behind him, flicking the lock. He noticed that the door had been replaced or fixed whilst he’d been in hospital - it had been all battered and broken after Dee and Mac had kicked it in. Mac was looking at him with a bored, expectant expression.

“I’m not getting undressed with you watching,” Dennis narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve seen you naked loads of times before, Dennis,” Mac rolled his eyes. “Don’t be weird about it.”

Dennis’ eyes flared, but he didn’t have a leg to stand on in regards to any potential argument he could make. That comment was granted, and Dennis fucking deserved it.

He sniffed indignantly and walked to look in the full length mirror, unfastening his shirt buttons. His back was turned to Mac as he popped the buttons undone slowly, realising how challenging it was to take off a button down shirt with a cervical collar preventing him from being able to look at what he was doing.

Cursing under his breath, fingertips growing sore, he huffed an irritated sigh.

“Need help?” Mac asked with a feigned disinterest. It made something boil in Dennis’ stomach - anger? Pain? Remorse? All three?

Dennis grunted and kept on trying to unfasten the button, but now, his fingers were trembling and threatening to go numb from the amount of the plastic edge of the buttons dug into his fingertips.

“Dennis,” Mac sighed. “Let me help, dickhead.”

“It’s fine,” Dennis said coldly, gritting his teeth as he managed to unbutton the third, before getting into an albeit painful rhythm to unfasten them all.

He caught Mac’s eye in the mirror, about to shrug off the shirt from over his shoulders; he was looking right at Dennis with a totally blank and unreadable expression.

“Can you stop staring at me?” Dennis narrowed his eyes, looking over his shoulder to stare down Mac, whose gaze didn’t falter. “It feels like a God damn suicide watch.”

“Yeah, asshole, ‘cause it is,” Mac spoke weakly. As he sat there, watching Dennis act so defensively and coldly, he started to really assess the situation at hand and the situation of prior. Was this the real Dennis, the breakdown he’d been through tearing down his walls and now the real him was shining through? Or was the Dennis who claimed to love Mac the real Dennis? The last glimmers of his true self gripping onto reality before his mind plunged into some semblance of a void? He didn’t know and he couldn’t work it out.

He did know, however, that he didn’t have any fight left. His empathy had run out, his ability to care had run out - maybe that made him a terrible person, but there’d been no respite from Dennis’ deterioration since that day when they lived in the suburbs together. It had exhausted him; sucked out any final dregs of enthusiasm clinging to his bones.

Mac watched as Dennis hesitated, stilling his hands around his shirt, before reluctantly shrugging it off from around his shoulders. Mac didn’t stare - he forced himself to mind his own business for a second, averting his eyes as a form of self-protection, rather than making Dennis more comfortable. 

Not self-protection from his attraction to Dennis - no, there was no need to stop himself from admitting that. He’d crossed that line already. It was self-protection from the raw agony he’d feel, watching the clothes fall off the body that must’ve been skeletal, by that point. Mac had to ease himself into accepting the reality of Dennis’ morphed appearance, and staring him down and then getting slapped in the teeth with the knowledge would’ve been far too much to cope with in one go.

He unlocked his phone and forced his eyes to the screen.

“I’m not gonna try again, Mac,” Dennis said. Mac flicked his eyes up, catching Dennis’ naked back, before looking away again. “We had this conversation, in the hospital. This doesn’t need to be suicide watch if I’m not gonna commit suicide.”

“I remember you saying, I know,” Mac’s nose twitched, swiping his thumb up the phone screen as if he were focusing on the contents of Facebook - he wasn’t. His eyes were glazed, and although they were pointed at the screen, they weren’t looking at it. 

“So-“

“Look, I don’t know how much of what you say I can even trust anymore, bro,” Mac forced the faux-friendly term on the end, trying (and failing) to mask to emotion that was starting to emerge in his voice. He had to remain nonchalant.

He had to protect himself.

Dennis scoffed, jaw hardening as he looked at Mac through the reflection in the mirror. Mac could feel the piercing gaze like lasers on the side of his head, but he kept his eyes glued down, down, down.

“Thanks for that. _Bro_.”

Mac’s features squeezed into a flinch.

“It’s true, though,” Mac meekly defended himself. The strong and uncaring parts of him were starting to slip and it left him vulnerable, hands almost trembling. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to be having. “I don’t know what to expect from you, or what to believe about what you say.”

“Asshole-“

“You said you loved me and shit,” Mac snapped, looking up from his phone screen to force eye contact with Dennis, who at that point, had turned slightly to face him, shirtless.

God, he looked bad. 

“Mac,” Dennis’ voice was a little less abrasive now, trying a different approach altogether. Mac ignored it.

“And now you don’t want me to be ‘weird’ with you. Like.. come on, you know? What am I supposed to believe? You pretended to love me - made me believe that. How am I supposed to trust that you’re not doing the same with this?”

Dennis swallowed a lump in his throat and licked his lips, before looking away. He looked hurt, Mac noted - good.

So he should be.

Mac waited for a reply that didn’t appear to come. He gave up, sighing deeply after about thirty seconds had passed.

“I just wish you’d be honest with me, s’all,” his voice had returned to the casual tone it had been in, although a little more reserved now. It was the sort of voice that a year ago, Dennis would have scratched him for. 

Would Dennis still do that now?

Whether he would or not didn’t matter - Mac wouldn’t give him the time of day if he fucking tried.

“I never lied,” he said after a drawn out pause, turning completely away from Mac as he finally found his words, unfastening his jeans - he had remembered that he was in the process of getting into the bath, and if he didn’t hurry up, the water would start to cool before he’d even had chance to wash. 

“Right-“

“I do love you,” Dennis kept his voice as steady as possible, but nothing could disguise the sudden drop in dynamic and confidence. He slipped his loose jeans down his legs, leaving him in his underwear.

Mac swallowed a dangerously large lump in his throat and looked into his lap, not even bothering to mask it with the premise of his phone. He exhaled and noticed the prominent quiver of his breath trembling through his bitten lips. 

“Don’t use present tense, Dennis,” he eventually managed to say, and suddenly, his voice was as drawn and quiet as Dennis’ had become. He felt sad. Sadness, Mac decided, was an exceptional word to describe the weight in his chest. Perhaps there was a little bit of resentment mingled in with the ten tonne pressure upon his heart. It wouldn’t surprise him. “That... I mean, that just hurts.”

Dennis sniffed, which made Mac’s head snap up to look at him - he wasn’t crying, but his lips were pursed so firmly they almost disappeared into his face. His eyes were closed, not looking at himself or at Mac or at anything. Just at a dark nothingness.

That seemed to be where Dennis was altogether, at the moment. Engulfed in some sort of nothingness. Maybe restricting his view of the real world with closed eyelids was comforting to him, Mac theorised, as he watched Dennis’ facial expression vibrate.

“You said you wanted me to be honest,” Dennis bit, a futile attempt at a harsh and unresponsive tone of voice slipping into something more wounded, reflecting the actual motive behind the words. Dennis stiffened his jaw upon hearing his voice betray him, before realising - there really was no need for this facade. So he gave it up, for once in his miserable life. “I do. Love you, that is. I’m not gonna lie about that; I’m not that much of an asshole.”

Mac watched as Dennis’ arms crossed over his body and hugged his frame, hesitating as he stood in the mirror in nothing but his underwear. He was either hugging himself for comfort, or hugging himself so his arms would cover his body - Hell, knowing Dennis it was probably both. He was at that level of complexity at this point. But Mac looked at Dennis’ facial expression through the reflection, and although he could catch his eye, the look shrouding his eyes was drawn, tired. Maybe it was uncaring - Mac couldn’t quite tell. It was something, it was an emotion, but it wasn’t love.

“You wouldn’t know love if it punched you in the fucking face,” Mac sighed. “Jesus fucking Christ, Den.”

“Dennis,” Dennis corrected, turning his head to look at Mac with a frown as if to say ‘please, don’t’.

“Shut up,” Mac scowled. “Den.”

Dennis’ nose twitched, but he didn’t argue. He held eye contact for a crucifying few seconds, before looking away again. 

He stripped out of his boxers and, on wobbly legs, climbed into the bath.

The lavender suddenly smelt unfamiliar.

Mac averted his eyes as Dennis lowered himself into the bath, but once he was submerged in the water and his head and neck brace were resting on the edge of the tub, he looked up because he could. Dennis couldn’t see Mac from where he was laying, so he couldn’t comment on Mac’s gaze being so directly on Dennis.

Apparently, Mac had given up on self-protection, and truly perceived the sight that was Dennis Reynolds’ vessel, body, shell. He seemed inanimate, void of life. Maybe Dennis was right about what he’d told Mac on the Schuylkill Expressway - he was dead, and Mac had buried him.

His brow twitched and shook the thought away as it tried to intrude his thoughts, trying to cast his vision back to Dennis without overthinking. It was, however, impossible to not overthink as you looked at the man you loved naked, after a steady month of falling into a pit of some sort of mental decline. Where a month ago, he would’ve looked at Dennis with mild concern because of his ever-deepening frown lines, he looked at him now with a deep unsettling fear. The bones in his face were prominent at this point, he’d lost a lot of weight (especially in his last eight days in hospital). Not only that, but his legs were strewn with an array of bruises that Mac hadn’t seen until that moment. Had he been punching himself? It wasn’t the most surprising notion ever. It wasn’t only bruises that dotted his legs, though - scratches from his fingernails, presumably, were etched into his thigh, flaking skin and red marks rippling in contrast to his pale skin, spotting where the blood had come to the surface but hadn’t quite seeped through.

These features and parts of Dennis would've hurt Mac considerably more if there wasn’t one part of Dennis’ appearance that dominated the twinging agony in Mac’s heart: his forearms.

It always came back to his arms and the cuts and the scars that just seemed to pile up day by day. But today, as he looked at Dennis laying calmly in the bath, he saw it with a new perspective; the two, pink, bumpy and ugly scars that had only just healed running down the centre of the length of his flesh, directly above where Mac guessed the artery to be. It made his stomach fucking turn into a frenzy of sorrow, as his eyes flicked from the scars from the third attempt to the neck brace. 

How was he going to cope when the neck brace was ready to come off? Would there be bruising for him to have to look at? How long would it last, if there was? It didn’t bare to think about.

Dennis’ chest rose and fell, and with each breath, the floral scented water rippled, partitions ebbing away from his feeble body. He looked peaceful like that - eyes closed, brow gently furrowed but still uncompromisingly relaxed, breathing slow and steady, which made a refreshing change from his shaky breaths or panic induced hyperventilating. His hair was uneven, but where he’d torn some of the fringe weeks before, it was starting to grow out, and by this point, the strands were preliminarily curling into his signature loose ringlets. They rested against his forehead, that was adorned with visible freckles that weren’t usually perceptible to the human eye, shrouded by layers of foundation and powder. He looked peaceful, and it made Mac _ache_.

For some reason, perceiving Dennis in such a morbid light made Mac notice a somber feeling of ennui anchor him into a frozen position. He was paralysed with exhaustion, desperation, anguish and as he looked upon the carcass of Dennis Reynolds, he felt deeply, deeply disappointed. 

Suddenly, the stumps of hair that were growing out weren't soft and luscious - no, they were rough, sharp, like thorns intruding into Dennis’ skin. The ugly scars on his forearms were stigmatic wounds, and the bruises on his legs were blemishes, marked from countless, unrelenting lashes. Dennis had carried the weight of trauma for so long, he’d been crucified of the very burden he dragged behind him.

It was too late to get him down. To late to expel the nails from his wrists or to remove his crown of thorns. Mac couldn’t reach him now, because he was trapped behind a monumental boulder that could never be broken. Dennis was rotting, decaying inside a crevice of a cliff face and there didn’t seem to be any way of rescuing him.

He’d left a trail of blood and damp footprints in his wake. Was that all Mac had to remember the old Dennis by? The vision of his losing touch with reality in the fountain? The memory of him propelling a glass of water through the air and suffocating? The memory of him sitting on the edge of the bridge with the rippling of the river below tying him like an anchor into oblivion?

Why couldn’t he have left something less devastating? Why couldn’t he have left Mac with the knowledge that he was grateful for his help, or that he loved Mac truly, or that his life had counted for something?

Dennis hadn’t been the saviour Mac had yearned for, and now he was gone. Now, Dennis was a redacted life force.

So why the fuck did Mac still love him? Why the fuck couldn’t Mac look at this disintegrating human without so much tenderness in his eyes?

It was stupid. Dennis was gone.

Mac needed to learn that. 

There was no Mac and Dennis because there was no Dennis. It was Mac and a corpse, and where was the humanity in that?

Dennis lifted his arms and tried to sit up, a strained voice emitting from his throat. Mac was fixated, eyes stuck like glue to the struggling, naked and vulnerable man. He reached to the end of the bath where a little metal jug sat on the rim, and filled it with water.

Mac knew that Dennis liked to use a jug to wet his hair if he was having a bath instead of a shower. He’d always said that he enjoyed the differentiation between the two types of washing, and that meddling a shower into a bath seemed incorrect to him. Mac had never made sense of it, but then again, Mac had never made sense of anything in relation to Dennis.

Dennis was struggling, evidently. He tried leaning his head forwards so he could rinse his hair, but couldn’t get far without either the cervical collar stopping him, or the pain from the injury of his neck (this much was evident in the little grunts he made, and the way he flinched if he leaned too far forwards). He tipped out the jug of bath water, but it barely covered his fringe, and instead of wetting his hair, left him gasping quietly for oxygen after the water engulfed his face.

He looked deeply troubled for a second, as he swiped the water from his eyes and spluttered, and sat motionless for at least a minute.

“Uh,” Dennis cleared his throat after the silence, getting Mac’s attention without turning his head. “Mac?”

“Dennis,” Mac acknowledged.

“I need a hand,” Dennis replied, not proudly yet without shame. “To wash my hair. The neck brace,” he gestured blankly to his neck. “It’s tricky. I didn’t realise it would, uh, be this difficult. And painful.” His words were very disjointed - instead of speaking in his usual, fluent form, he seemed to finish sentences after a mere couple of words, breaking down what could be a lengthy conversation into the necessary minimum. 

“I was just waiting for you to ask, dude,” Mac sighed deeply and stood up from the closed toilet seat, padding across the linoleum bathroom floor for a couple of paces before stopping, kneeling beside the bathtub. Dennis could see Mac now, as well as Mac being able to see Dennis. The first glimpse of eye contact between them, as Mac knelt beside Dennis’ withering, submerged, nude form was one that held many, indiscernible levels.

Dennis blinked, looking at Mac as he held his knees up to his chest, trying to gauge what was going on behind Mac’s eyes. It was, however, far too complex and neurotically misleading to even begin to dissect.

“Thanks,” Dennis pursed his lips as he looked away, reaching for the jug. He hoped that the pucker of his lips would hoodwink Mac into believing that he was being grumpy and stubborn, where the tight seal that clenched his jaw was more of a remedy to a sad and overwhelmed smile befalling his face. 

Mac took the jug from Dennis’ hand, and Dennis glanced up again briefly, to see an apparition of a smile with most immense confusion grace Mac’s lips.

This situation was supposed to feel awkward, but although it was shrouded with almost bitter emotions and there was an ever-widening gulf emerging between them, it was familiar and there wasn’t any particular discomfort. At least, not in relation to their distance and the borderline intimate situation, anyway. 

Mac stood the jug on the rim of the bath and placed his palm on Dennis’ shoulder, pushing him gently back, making sure to support the back of his head with his other hand - what with the brace and the injury. Dennis raised a curious eyebrow, at which point Mac explained.

“Lie back, it’ll be easier to keep out of your face,” Mac prompted, watching Dennis’ sunken eyes reach a silent understanding, allowing Mac to lower him into the water. “I’ve seen your face submerged in water enough.” 

Dennis blinked in confusion, frowning in a puzzled expression, silently asking him to clarify what the fuck he was talking about.

“The bath, bozo? You’d drowned for like a few minutes,” Mac spoke incredulously. “After the bridge.”

“Right, yeah,” Dennis twitched into a frown, and although the muscles in his forehead reacted, his eyes didn’t change - they still had some sort of blank perplexed feeling misting over them.

Mac picked up the jug as Dennis rested his head back, filling it with the water. The contact with the surface rippled the water, and suddenly, the scent of lavender wasn’t so perturbing to Mac. He lifted the jug from the bath and gently poured it over Dennis’ uneven hair, guiding it back so it trickled away from Dennis’ face.

Dennis closed his eyes, but Mac could see him chewing the inside of his mouth from the way his cheeks flexed. It made him wonder what Dennis was thinking, but that wasn’t a new thing to wonder and it wasn’t something he was ever able to figure out.

Mac felt quiet, for the first time since he had knocked on Charlie’s door in the early hours of the morning, nearly two months before. It wasn’t a contented quietness, or a satisfying one. It was more of an aching quiet, like a gaping void of silence was creeping into his thoughts and muffling them, one by one.

He didn’t know if he liked the quiet, after being so accustomed to such a deafening and raucous existence.

Dennis’ hair was wet, so Mac sat back a little and reached for the pricey, lychee scented shampoo Dennis and Dee used. The effeminate bottle and the rest of the moisturisers and shower gels made Mac’s all-in-one men’s hair and body gel look quite out of place. He squeezed a fairly large amount of product onto the palm of his hand, the baby pink shampoo threatening to spill out of his hands. He cupped his palm.

“Sit up a bit,” said Mac, prompting Dennis’ eyes to open. Mac held out the hand that wasn’t full of shampoo, and Dennis took ahold of the wrist and pulled himself up, carefully. Mac noticed the cervical collar around Dennis’ neck, that was a soft and foam-like material and, now, dripping wet. “Were you supposed to take your neck thing off first?”

“Probably,” Dennis said nonchalantly. “I’ll take it off when I’m dressed, let it dry off.”

“That’s stupid,” Mac commented. “It’s there for a reason.”

“If I’m supposed to manage in the bath without it, I’m sure I can manage without it if I’m laying down on the sofa whilst it dries,” Dennis replied curtly. He frowned, then softened, noticeably. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Mac swallowed a lump in his throat, that had risen for a reason he couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the fact that he’d just heard those last words leave Dennis’ lips - ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine’. Without dwelling on those words and the implications it held and the emotions it made him feel, Mac took his wrist from Dennis’ grip and tipped his palm onto the uncharacteristically subdued man’s sodden hair.

Mac was as gentle as he could bring himself to be, in the sense that he wasn’t firm with the way he kneaded the shampoo into Dennis’ hair, but all he wanted to so was yank his curls so hard that it hurt, so Dennis could fully understand the significance of his impact. He knew however, that he couldn’t feasibly do this - not only because Dennis’ neck was injured and in a cast, but also because the atmosphere had become more comfortable and had given Mac a glimmer of hope that maybe, things could eventually be mended between them.

It was obvious that Dennis didn’t hate him, at the very least. Although for Mac? He was finding it increasingly difficult to find the split between love and hate when it came to Dennis, and how Mac felt about him. This made it impossibly difficult to caress Dennis’ hair with the gentle forbearance he would ordinarily make an effort to convey in his actions towards Dennis.

So he didn’t tug, but he didn’t brush lovingly - he just washed Dennis’ hair and tried to bear it as emotionless and cold as possible.

Dennis didn’t feel any lack of emotion in Mac’s hands, as his hair was washed. He could feel the passive aggression, he could feel the anguish and the disdain, but he could also feel the dire attempts to prevent any semblance of love translating in the way Mac forced his hands to move robotically.

It was obvious - not hard to read. 

The obvious repression of solicitude left Dennis feeling a little conflicted for the following reasons: Mac still felt that level of affection for Dennis, but he was going out of his way to hide it from him. Dennis couldn’t quite puzzle why, exactly, Mac was making a conscious effort to prevent anything symbolic of romantic feelings from coming across to Dennis.

Was it because he didn’t believe Dennis still loved him? It couldn’t be that, Dennis thought - he’d just confirmed that he did. 

Was it because Dennis had pissed him off? It couldn’t be that, Dennis thought - he’d done nothing wrong.

~~_Yes I have. I’ve done everything wrong._ ~~

Dennis should try to get what he wanted, but that’s how he went through life - getting what he wanted. The difficulty with this situation, is that Dennis had no clue as to what it was he exactly wanted. He wanted Mac, sure. But he didn’t want Mac to want him. But he did. Or did he?

He wanted Mac. It hurt.

God, when was it going to stop hurting? When was he gonna be able to think about Mac without every fibre of his being feeling fucking antagonised?

He chewed harshly on the inside of his cheek as Mac took his hands out of Dennis’ hair and rinsed the suds from his hands in the water. He watched the bubbles expel from his hands and drift away in the water and he almost wanted to push the bubbles back and glue them to Mac’s fucking hand.

Mindlessly, Dennis moved his hand to grab Mac's wrist, that was suspended in the bath water. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it had direction - even if Dennis didn’t know which direction he was going in.

Mac looked up, and met his eye. Dennis was expecting to see his brows upturned and his eyes sparkling - they weren’t. Mac was frowning in deep, startled confusion, eyes wide but with less expectation and more uncertainty. It could have even be categorised as fear - he looked scared.

Dennis didn’t want Mac to be scared.

He didn’t move once Mac was looking at him, the grip he had on the tense wrist loosening a little, without letting go. Dennis noticed that Mac's wrist was trembling slightly, causing barely noticeable ripples expel from around his skin, pushing the bubbles further away.

Further, further away.

Mac was frozen in place as he looked at Dennis and the very sudden, unprompted situation settled into reality. Dennis’ gaze was unwavering but not particularly emotional; at least by traditional standards. His brow was set in a firm expression, bordering on a frown. His jaw was unclenched, relaxed, and his lip, although sucked in a little, was stable and unshaken. Firm. His eyes looked a little glazed and uncertain, but not particularly upset. He looked like Dennis, but with the vague energy of being a deer caught in headlights.

Mac’s fingers twitched and as the water splashed gently, he couldn’t help but avert his gaze, even if temporarily. He swallowed, and the room was so quiet, the noise of the dry air convulsing in his throat practically erupted the silence. 

He didn’t know what to do. 

What was he supposed to do?

“You’re an asshole,” Mac croaked.

Silence.

A droplet of water from Dennis’ fringe slid down a strand of hair and cascaded into the water. He slipped his hand down from Mac’s wrist to his palm and slotted between the fingers, half-submerged in the water that was starting to cool.

Dennis hoped that this would make Mac look in his direction. It worked.

Mac hesitantly cast his gaze back to Dennis, his lip now firmly shaking, teeth clenched down on his tongue, and eyes, although pissed off and scared, were now hinting at the beginnings of softening into a naive anticipation.

He didn’t know what pushed him to do it, but Mac felt compelled to squeeze Dennis’ hand, and when he felt a receptive squeeze in response, his trembling lip steadied, and things begun to feel a little more usual.

Dennis was alive again, at least for a moment. He wasn’t full, but he sure as shit wasn’t empty; Mac moved his free hand to swipe some shampoo that had dropped down his forehead away. For better or for worse, he didn’t remove his hand when the shampoo was cleared - it lingered by Dennis’ forehead, fingers resting on his brow bone, palm against his cheekbone. 

This intimacy was so familiar that it was unfamiliar. It felt like a distant dream, but it was happening in real-time and Mac wasn’t sure what the fuck to think of it all.

Dennis’ lips looked unprecedentedly inviting, so Mac kissed them, and that’s the only thought that needed to occur.

It felt like this was the first time they’d kissed, and it was, to an extent. This was the first time they’d kissed as the people they’d become, and it was evident that it was new and different and strange, almost. Strange, in the sense that their lips didn’t move at all to begin with. They just captured each other, and for a moment, that was enough. A moment for their minds to exhale and stabilise. A moment to process the relief, to process the notion that things were going to finally start healing between them.

They were going to mend, circumstance permitting or not. 

Mac could feel Dennis’ breath exhale from his nose, and it quivered dangerously upon his Cupid’s bow. He could feel the trepidation in the air that hit his stubbled skin, he could feel the dolour ebbing away as he found comfort in the feeling of their lips. 

The antipathy that had creeped in and sunk it’s teeth into the values their relationship mitigated in fluid waves, escaping gradually, rippling away. And then, Dennis lifted a hand from the water and held Mac’s neck in his palm and tilted his head an almost insignificant amount, parting his lips a little and catching Mac in another, much awaited kiss.

It repeated, until they were kissing like average people. Kissing like one of them wasn’t naked in a bath with his neck in a collar, and like the other wasn’t crumbling as he watched the man he was devoted to wane from existence. Kissed without sexuality or intent, kissed without context but with all the context in the fucking world, kissed as if they’d never stopped kissing in the first place.

It didn’t go any further than that. It would’ve done, hell, it should’ve done, but it didn’t.

Dennis tugged back harshly, and the hand that had been on Mac’s neck quickly moved to his chest, to push him away in a firm shove.

Mac’s eyes closed and jaw clenched as he teetered backwards, not entirely surprised but entirely disappointed.

“Don’t kiss me,” snapped Dennis, at which point, Mac’s eyes snapped open in pure rage-

The rage dissolved as his eyes landed on Dennis.

His lips were white. His eyes were glass. His skin was blue. The water was red. Blood flowing from open wounds. Rusty nail heads sticking out between the arteries. Thorns intertwined and puncturing the forehead. Blood dripping down into his eyes. Body skeletal. Bruises covering every square inch of skin. Blood. Thorns. Nails. Water.

Mac scrambled backwards in a caught wind of breath, blinking rapidly as his wet hands failed to find grip on the linoleum floor.

“ ~~If I say to the wicked, ‘You shall surely die,’ and you give him no warning, nor speak to warn the wicked from his wicked way, in order to save his life, that wicked person shall die for his iniquity, but his blood I will require at your hand.~~ ”

Mac shot up from the floor and looked at ~~Dennis~~ with a level of terror he’d never quite felt before. His lips weren’t moving, but the words - those words sounded like his voice. But his lips weren’t moving.

With a jagged inhale, he squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his fists so hard they vibrated, and kept them like that adamantly. Adamant that what he was seeing wasn’t real, because it couldn’t be real, could it? That couldn’t be happening, he couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t be God’s son and adversary, he couldn’t be there to ~~punish~~ him, to tell him how he’d killed ~~Dennis~~ he’d buried him he’d put the nail in the coffin fuck you Mac fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fu ~~ck you you buried me you put the nail in the coffin fuck you fuck you it hurts too much fuck you don’t kiss me again don’t kiss me again fuck you newflash asshole I’ve been hearing it the entire God damn time then why wouldn’t you say something bec~~ ause **I hate you**.

“Mac, dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Mac’s eyes snapped open wide.

Dennis was sitting in the bath. Alive, fine, normal. Clear water. Crystal clear water. Dennis was sitting in the bath.

It wasn’t real.

Mac soon realised that he was on the verge of hyperventilating as he blinked, adjusting to reality, seeing the concerned expression, addled with irritation, resting conflictingly upon Dennis alive, warm, skin-coloured, thornless face.

“The fuck, dude?” Dennis asked with a low level of poison and a high level of genuine worry.

Mac shook his head and deliberately tried to steady his breathing. He swallowed, and his throat burned, as if his spit was fermented alcohol. He gathered himself, and looked at Dennis now without fear, but with unbridled rage.

‘Don’t kiss me’, as if he hadn’t been kissing Mac back with just as much, if not more, fervour. Mac frowned in scorn - Dennis had initiated it by taking his wrist and looking at him with that fucking look on his stupid dickhead asshole face - Mac would’ve never kissed him if he hadn’t. I mean, fuck... Dennis had said that he still loved him. 

Evidently he fucking didn’t.

At least Mac finally had some certainty.

“You’re a cunt,” Mac spat, and he meant it with every fibre of his being. 

Dennis didn’t flinch, and Mac thundered out, leaving the piece of shit alone in the bath.

Mac didn’t stop walking once he’d left the bathroom - he stormed through Dee’s bedroom and flung open the wicker doors.

The fermented taste from his throat found it’s way to his tongue. 

His mouth tasted bitter and musty.

“Hey, asshole, watch my doors!” Dee yelled from where she was sat on her sofa. Mac ignored her, storming into the hall area and sliding his feet clumsily into a pair of green house shoes.

His mouth tasted sour and warm.

Mac grabbed his pocket - he had his phone. With a shaky exhale, he stopped walking at such a pace for a moment, trying to calm the anger and fear that was mingling together in his brain.

“I’m going,” Mac said loud enough for Dee to hear. “He’s all yours.”

“Is he- Mac!” She whined in protest, and started rambling on a spiel of words Mac didn’t care to listen to. He flung the front door open and stepped swiftly out, slamming it behind him. 

Without a pause, he made a beeline for the end of the corridor, walking away, God, as far away as possible from the apartment, from the bathroom, from Dennis.

His mouth tasted like red wine. He swallowed. His throat burned.

He walked and he didn’t stop.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: references to suicide, descriptions of past hallucinations, self harm (punching/head butting walls), cloaked and vague references to past sexual assault

Frank looked up as a knock came to his and Charlie’s apartment door. Charlie was playing a tinny-sounding electric keyboard, stringing together chords on different sounds and synths. He, too, looked up, hands stilled in a triad position. The knock was tentative, which made both Charlie and Frank’s faces settle into knowing frowns.

They both knew that Dennis had been discharged from hospital that day. Hell, they’d even discussed between them out of morbid curiosity how Mac was gonna react upon seeing him. The amount of time Mac had spent with Charlie in the past week had given Charlie a lot of insight, and with the knowledge that Dennis was going to be back home that day gave him some kind of deep concern, for lack of a better way to describe it.

He and Frank had theorised that Dennis’ return would either make the pair sort things out and grow closer together or put an even bigger rift between them than before.

The familiar knock at the door was a confirmation of which theory had come to fruition.

“I’ve got it,” Frank said, and stood up from the comfortable sofa bed, that at that moment, was a sofa.

Charlie sighed dramatically and nodded, pushing his keyboard gently from off his lap and placing it on the floor, to the side of the room. Safely out of the way. He had a feeling Mac was gonna be pretty neurotic and by God, he was protecting his stuff from Mac’s potential, and probable rage.

He looked up and watched Frank hastily approach the door, when another, slightly frantic knock came. Frank grunted an incomprehensible sound of frustration, and opened the door.

It was Mac. Of course, it was Mac.

He was very slightly shaking, but he was forcing a deeply nonchalant expression on his face, pushing the emotion back through his tired, tumultuous eyes.

“Can I come in?” Mac asked, after a second of silence passed. His voice was weak and he wrung his hands in front of his stomach, knuckles white with the pressure. Frank looked at Mac intensely, but Mac couldn’t, or wouldn’t, make eye contact.

“Yeah,” Frank eventually said, and stepped back from the doorway, standing aside pretty drastically; something about Mac’s demeanor was exceptionally unsettling, even for Frank, who frowned with wary apprehension.

Mac walked calmly through the door, and stopped his footsteps when he was firmly inside the apartment and Frank had closed the door. He didn’t look up, until Charlie spoke up.

“Buddy, what’s up?” Charlie asked as casually as he possibly could, trying not to let on how aware he and Frank already were. Mac’s eyes darted up and without any expression, he shrugged.

“Dennis is home,” he said quietly, still wringing his hands. The skin of his knuckles were going red from friction and it looked to Charlie as though it was fairly painful. Mac didn’t stop.

“Yeah, we heard he was due to get out today, right Frank?”

Frank nodded with a mumbled ‘yeah’ in response. He grabbed a beer from an almost empty crate that was sat atop their cheap TV, handing it to Mac. Wordlessly, Mac took it, cracking open the seal and necking the entire can without pausing to breathe. He crushed it in his fist and placed it uncharacteristically gently on the coffee table.

“So, how is he?” Charlie asked, gesturing for Mac to sit on the sofa besides him. He did just that and with stunted movement, sat almost robotically on the uncomfortable sofa besides Charlie, who was silently thanking his past self for not huffing glue that day; this was something Charlie would absolutely not know how to approach if he was high.

Mac rested his elbows on his knees and clenched his hands back together, almost in a praying gesture, whether that was intentional or not. He rested his chin atop his knuckles, and exhaled an unsteady breath.

He laughed, for a second, exhaling harshly out of his nose.

“Incapable.”

Charlie chewed the inside of his lip and watched Mac’s stony face, searching for a glimmer or a twitch anywhere. He couldn’t find one.

“He stopped being a dick yet?”

Mac laughed again, cold and bitter. Charlie noticed a wobble to his bottom lip, watched as Mac sucked it in and brow crease for a split second.

“Nah.”

“What happened, bro?” Charlie asked, subtly gesturing for Frank to get another beer. He did, and passed it to Mac, before going to sit at the windowsill. He reached down to the side of the radiator and opened a little box, pulling out a pre-rolled joint. He lit up and cracked open the window, pretending to not pay attention to Mac but listening with a keen ear to the conversation.

“He came home. Neck in a brace, all that. I went to hug him and he said something about not making it weird and gay. So I smacked him,” Mac said blankly. “Probably shouldn’t’ve done that. But whatever.” He broke the seal of the new beer can and sipped, not chugging it like the last one. Charlie noticed that now his hands weren’t clasped, they were susceptible to shaking, quite noticeably.

“If he wasn’t in a neck brace then, I don’t know dude. Sounds like he deserved it.”

“He doesn’t- didn’t. Deserve it.” Mac’s words were disjointed and broken, and his face was starting to set in a slight frown. “Pain, you know? He didn’t deserve it.”

“Past tense?” Frank chipped in, a mild carelessness to his voice. He drew in a deep toke of his joint and spluttered.

Mac’s head snapped towards Frank, and caught his eye.

“Past tense.”

Frank chuckled darkly, shaking his head, before turning away again.

Charlie was about to speak up once more, to prompt Mac to continue.

“... So-”

“He demanded a bath. Headed to the bathroom, got in an argument with Dee. She was being a bitch, I guess. But she said he couldn’t bathe on his own.”

“Fair enough.”

“Exactly, fair enough. Dennis was pissed off. So he had to choose whether he wanted me or Dee to... watch him. In the bath. He chose me. Dee was being a bitch,” he said, licking his lips in thought, before throwing his head back and gulping down a swig of beer. The can was at least half emptied, then. “So I sat in with him.”

Charlie winced, and muttered an awkward “yikes.”

“Yeah, yikes. He said something about me trusting his word, so I said something about how the fuck could I?” Mac’s sentences were becoming longer, but not particularly any more cohesive. His breathing was deeply unsteady. “He said something about loving me still and I didn’t know how to respond or what to say because I was convinced he didn’t but he sounded so genuine but I was so fucking angry and... I don’t know. I said that he wouldn’t know what love was if it slapped it in the face.”

Charlie didn’t bother with interjecting meaningless remarks at that point. It seemed useless.

“He got in the bath. Couldn’t even wash his own hair because of his neck and the pain from it and all that crap, so he asked if I could. Hey, it was nice for a moment. Kinda weird but it wasn’t awkward and tense it was just quiet and... I mean, it kinda hurt. Like, it hurt my chest. Felt like it was being pulled. He looks so fucking ill, dude, he’s lost so much weight and his arms are fuckin’ scarred up beyond belief. He had bruises on his legs, and... I mean, yeah. He looked bad, you know?”

Charlie nodded.

“I washed his hair. Went to rinse my hands of the bubbles in the water and he like, grabbed my wrist,” Mac said. His voice was getting quiet. “Not grabbed- he didn’t... it wasn’t a grab. He kind of just held it. Looked at me with that fucking look on his gorgeous fucking face.”

Mac paused, didn’t continue for a long moment. His grip on the beer can tightened a bit, and the flimsy material crinkled - he necked the rest of the beer and crushed it once more in his fist, dropping it from his hand. It bounced on the floor between his feet.

He cleared his throat and huffed a sigh, closing his eyes.

“I kissed him.”

Mac didn’t reopen his eyes, but his upper lip twitched and his face hardened into a confusing expression. Charlie looked at Frank, who was already looking back, and silently gestured a desperately clueless shrug, mouthing ‘what do I say?’, and Frank looking just as cluelessly back.

A long silence passed, in which time Mac was seemingly trying to force himself into a composed state. His face went from stony, to a little averse, to his brow set in an almost upturned frown, chin quivering, jaw clenched, body vibrating.

He swallowed visibly.

“He kissed me back. It was nice, uh- yeah. It was fine. But then out of nowhere he pushed me back, and I like, I closed my eyes because I was pissed off,” Mac sniffed out of pride, obviously trying to keep himself together, choosing his words very carefully. His leg started to bounce, heel tapping erratically against the floor. Charlie watched him with a uneasy feeling in his stomach, watching as Mac’s expression broke.

He feared that he was going to cry, but somehow, Mac pulled it together for a little longer.

Mac licked his lips, like he was hesitant to finish the story.

“U-uhm,” his voice broke, but he swallowed again, exhaling through his lips. He opened his eyes, and stared at the floor. “He told me to not kiss him. And I was angry, so my eyes like. Snapped the fuck open, but, uh...”

Mac laughed, but it sounded like a sob. It wasn’t - there were no tears in his eyes, but he massaged his forehead forcibly with his palms.

“I think I’m losing my mind or something, Charlie,” his voice was tight. “I’m catching Dennis’ madness or some shit, like it’s contagious because I’m actually honest to God losing my mind.”

Charlie blinked, because he had no idea what to say for a long moment.

“Why?”

Mac spluttered, and this time Charlie actually couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sob or both, because Mac’s fingers were pinched into his brow bone, obscuring his eyes and any potential tears from Charlie’s vision. Frank wasn’t pretending to not listen at this point - he was looking upon Mac with morbid curiosity and a glimmer of concern.

“I’m pretty sure I started hallucinating, right?” Mac’s voice was raised a little in pitch, forcing his jagged breaths into laughter. “I looked at him and he looked like- like some... ah, fuck, I’m not gonna burden you with some fuckin’ mad man shit.”

“Burden us,” Frank said firmly, obviously. There was a short silence. “It’s okay, kid.”

Charlie’s gut turned as he listened to Mac very obviously sob upon that term. His shoulders were starting to shake, but after a second or two, he forced himself to breathe and adamantly, violently, wiped his tears with the back of his hand, exhaling.

“He looked like Jesus, didn’t he? How fucked up has my brain got to be to look at Dennis Reynolds, the _literal_ polar opposite to Jesus, and see him with a- a, a fucking crown of thorns, and nails in his wrist and bruises from whips?” He spat in disgust at himself, but it wasn’t as simple as disgust; he was scared, and that presented itself in the dangerous wobble and heightened pitch of his voice. “Dennis hasn’t sacrificed himself, he’s sacrificed everyone else. He sacrificed me, Charlie, _me_. Not him. Not him. Not-t h...” Mac’s voice broke, so he cut himself off and tried to regain himself after allowing himself to sob at Frank’s caring response. He had to hold it together. He had to hold it together. “I’ve got to hold it together,” he whispered.

“Do...” Charlie stopped himself. He was so painfully uncertain about what to say or how to handle this - not only was one of his friends going through a weird crisis with their mental health, now another one was. But this friend was the closest and longest one Charlie had ever had. Mac was always supposed to be the rational one, the one who knew what to say or how to comfort Charlie. It wasn’t supposed to be the other way around. Was it? “Do you? I think you can like, not hold it together today, bro.”

Charlie watched out of the corner of his eye as Frank stood up from the window, but he didn’t pay it much heed, much more focused on Mac, who was pressing the heels of his palms into his sockets, struggling to regulate his breathing so much that the forced long breaths were loud, obvious, trembling.

“If I can’t hold it together,” Mac cleared his throat, sniffing adamantly. “Then who’s going to look after Dennis?“

“Why do you give a shit?”

Mac’s frame stopped moving for a second - it had, apparently, been rocking, subtly.

“I mean,” Charlie continued. “He’s fucking you around, even if he is like, mentally weird. He was a dick to you today, and you’re not with him right now to look after him anyway, right? So like, if you like, smush those two things together, the... the logical conclusion would be to not give a shit right now. Like, you can cry, dude. Dennis isn’t here to be weird about it. Like his weirdness isn’t here, it’s back at Dee’s, so- uh. You can have your weird without worrying about Dennis’ weird.”

Mac sighed dangerously calmly.

“What about your weird?”

“I’m not weird, asshole. I’m well adjusted-”

“No, dumbass, not weird as in- I mean... your weird! Like the way that you were using the word weird,” Mac explained frustratedly. He would normally gesticulate, or move, at the very least. He didn’t - he was deathly still, and still palmed firmly at his eyes. “Your weird, dude. Like mine, and Dennis’ kinda weird, just different, I guess.”

Charlie’s eyes widened in shock, before softening in realisation that Mac was looking out for him, before narrowing as he tried to pinpoint what he was referring to, before scowling as he realised that Mac meant Uncle Jack and the fact that Charlie used to have bad times when he and Mac were teenagers.

Not that he didn’t have them now - it was Frank who saw it now, not Mac. Mac saw Dennis’ weird, not Charlie’s weird, which is why it was a shock for Mac to verbalise it so strangely and out of the blue. It almost offended Charlie.

Had he got tired of Dennis’ weird, and now he was finally going to pay Charlie’s shit brain some overdue attention?

“I’m not a mental case like Dennis,” Charlie decided to deflect it. “I can, you know, do normal things like normal people.”

“Shut up, Charlie! I’m not an idiot — fuck...” Mac had snapped his head up in annoyance, the pressure from his palms leaving red marks around the high points of his cheekbones. “No offence, dude, but you can’t sleep without drugs, animal food and booze, you get freaked out by leaving Philly, you do all these weird things over and over like you’ll fuckin’ die if you don’t, and I’m not blind, I know you still have panic attacks. So shut up. Just- just shut up. You’re no better than me- Dennis, maybe, sure. But you’re no better than me. So I’m gonna hold it the _fuck_ together, alright? You’re not my babysitter, you’re my brother, and...” Mac paused, and as he spoke those final words, his irritation melted into some description of an overwhelmed, emotional, raw sadness. He trailed off, in the middle of the point he was making, and scrunched up his brow, flared his nose, pursed his lips and clenched his jaw as a wave of tears threatened to bust down the dams and flood him.

Frank had made his way over, beer can in hand. Charlie saw him try to give it to Mac, and although he knew it was a bad time and a very stupid idea, he didn’t have time to process the action and say something before Mac had yanked the can from Frank’s grip and lobbed it at the wall with all of his strength. He watched it crinkle upon the contact, bounce to the floor and split, beer frothing violently from the seams.

His chin wobbled, as he looked at the miserable can of wasted beer, ignoring Frank’s offended and shocked expression, ignoring Charlie’s concerned and hesitant repetition of his name.

Mac tried to breathe in but it was jagged, loud, almost effeminate, his pursing lips parting into a tense, trembling grimace. He lifted the back of his hand to his mouth, covering the obvious sobs in a last-ditch attempt to hold it together, hold it together, hold it together-

“It’s alright, buddy,” said Charlie quietly.

Mac choked on a breath and exhaled a broken cry, tears gushing down his cheeks like tidal waves; destructive, murderous, unforgiving.

His crying was as dramatic as it was pathetic, quite the opposite of manly or tough or badass. It was everything Mac didn’t want to be - weak. But there was no preventing the loud, uneven, jarring sobs that were expelling from his body that was bloated from exhausted patience and cooped-up emotions.

“F-Fuck,” he hiccoughed ferociously, gulping down tears in an attempt to stifle the sobs that were starting to escalate into a state he didn’t want to venture into. He covered his mouth with both hands, forcing himself into a shaking, quivering silence. He sat, choking against the hands restricting his air flow, before abruptly standing up.

Both Frank and Charlie’s eyes widened with caution, looking at each other for a split second with apprehension, before back to Mac, who was stood frozen still, his shaking shoulders suddenly stilling. Dangerously, was the transition from hysteria to deathly silence. He stood with his hands still covering his mouth, before his hands dropped and he exhaled slowly.

Charlie pushed himself off the sofa cautiously, sauntering round to the side of the silent man standing strangely in the middle of his apartment. He was unrecognisable, not in appearance per se, but in the way he was, the way his emotions and stance and body presented itself; it was painfully unfamiliar to Charlie and at this point, he’d ran out of any words to say.

The room was awfully suffocated with something resembling quiet, but although there was hardly any sound and absolutely no movement, it was fucking deafening, and it made Charlie’s ears ring and his head hurt.

But then, it wasn’t physically quiet and metaphorically deafening, it was physically deafening and metaphorically thunderous.

A guttural roar, tainted with rage, screamed a violent “ **Fuck**!” as his arms ripped through the air and clenched the coffee table, flipping it against the wall where it met the plaster with an erupting noise that made Charlie flinch, viciously.

His anger thundered in colossal waves, smashing through the apartment, destructive, loud, tearful, screaming. His knees threatened to buckle as he attempted to stride forward to throw the table once more, legs wobbling before he gave up. He almost fell forward, slamming his fist suddenly unrelentingly into the wall.

“ _Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you-_ ” Mac chanted with raw, rasping, broken gulps of air. The words punctuated each punch, growing weaker with each assault.

Charlie gathered himself. Closed his mouth that had dropped open. Winced as he watched the weakening punches begin to taint his wallpaper with small specs of crimson. Walked over. Grit his teeth. Grabbed Mac’s wrists.

Mac struggled against him, but his stamina was wearing thin after a considerably short amount of time. His words had trailed out, and as he let himself lean forwards, bumping his forehead weakly against the wall to replace his fists, his face fell from rage, to contorted, to confused, to broken.

He didn’t stop hitting his head, even when Charlie grabbed him by the arms, by the shoulders, trying to still him.

“Mac,” Charlie snapped. “Cut it out.”

“I’ve lost it,” Mac landed his head against the wall and rested there, forehead planted against the wallpaper his fists had bloodied. He attempted a weak laugh but it came out as a sob - a choke on a cry with an emasculated whine.

Charlie closed his eyes to calm himself down - there was only so much crying he could handle from Mac, from anyone, so as his voice broke once more, Charlie felt his stomach knot in fear and exhaustion and cloaked irritation. He’d never had to deal with this, and he wasn’t really cut out for it. It’s not like he’d helped so far; his coffee table was probably broken and now, he’d have to spend each day looking after small patches of blood on his wall.

Mac was injured - knuckles split, fractured at the very least. He’d probably have a mild bruise on his head, if that. Mac was also not Mac now, it’d gone too far and his emotions had seemingly warped his sense of being into that of a cowering, sobbing mess, and Charlie didn’t know that Mac, not at all.

It was Dennis’ fault, but Charlie couldn’t find it in him to even be that angry - because it wasn’t Dennis’ fault that he wasn’t Dennis either now. That was Ms Klinsky’s fault.

Charlie looked at Mac, whose eyes were squeezed shut and his jaw clenched, tears escaping through the crevice of his eyelids. He couldn’t help but think of Dennis, and in doing so, Ms Klinsky, and in doing so, himself.

His gut churned. It was agony.

The hands that had been gripping onto Mac loosened, slipping off him, but he didn’t step back.

Charlie made a mental note to not have a suicidal breakdown over Uncle Jack... Ever. He couldn’t watch Mac go through this again - it was selfishly exhausting and upsetting and God, he really couldn’t help but think aversively about what linked himself to Dennis.

Fuck.

Then he was feeling irate, no... Angry. Angry at Mac for never acknowledging his traumatic shit from when he was a kid, but paying all the attention in the world to Dennis’. Then he was angry at Dennis, for stealing all of Mac’s focus and energy to support that type of trauma response, that specific type. Why had Mac never paid Charlie any heed?

_Probably because you never admitted it, stupid-ass._

Then he was angry at Ms Klinsky again, then Uncle Jack, then Mac, Dennis, Klinsky, Jack, all in a matter of seconds before the anger spun itself into sadness as he watched his best friend cry against a bloodied wall because the world as he knew it was falling apart.

Frank was watching from a few metres away. He’d watched as Charlie’s fists had clenched and unclenched, his body tense and relax, shake, tremble, fall still. He could hazard a fairly good guess as to what was going through the kid’s head.

He couldn’t hazard a guess at what was going through Mac’s. Nah, that one was a nut job. Lost the plot. It didn’t make Frank feel any less wary and concerned, though. He told himself that he’d intervene if it was necessary - it probably wouldn’t be, as there was nothing that Frank ever said or did that helped these kind of mental situations.

The room was quiet again, besides Mac’s unsteady breathing, that only seemed more prominent amongst the otherwise eerie silence. And again, although it was physically quiet, Charlie’s brain was loud, again. Deafening, again. A chaotic cacophony of broken words and phrased bouncing off the interior of his skull like a God awful game of pin ball.

His eyes were fixed on Mac, vision partly concealed by the violently strong furrow of his frown. His face felt like an earthquake, as his jaw clenched and made his skin ripple in waves. His eyes felt like acid and his mouth felt like talcum powder and his cheeks felt like the filling of a Pop Tart. His brain felt like hurt. His heart felt like the bottom of a swimming pool.

His body felt like it was being held, suddenly. Because it was - Mac had, in what felt like a lightning flash, come away from the wall and collided into Charlie. Apparently, Charlie has jolted in surprise, arms flung to the side in surprise; they were hovering around Mac, before Charlie let them fall to rest on him.

He could feel Mac shaking. He felt like an earthquake too.

Mac’s face was buried into Charlie’s shoulder, which was really quite a feat, considering the fact that Charlie was shorter than Mac. Charlie didn’t mind. This was better than watching Mac punch the wall, head butt the wall, cry against the wall, throw shit, scream. It also made Charlie feel comforted in the fact that he could help Mac to an extent. If a hug helped? Charlie would hug. Charlie was hugging. It made a change from playing baseball with beer bottles.

“D’you wanna Grilled Charlie?” Charlie mumbled after a minute of hugging a freshly erupted volcano.

Mac nodded, but didn’t pull back.

Charlie felt like crying on Mac’s behalf, to save his friend the trouble of having even more tears come from his eyes. But he didn’t cry. He did, however, squeeze him in the hug, tightly, as if to say ‘shit, man, I would kill the world to make your sadness stop’.

Mac, whose breathing had begun to regulate, gulped down a fresh, dry, tearless sob, because he understood.

Charlie kissed the side of Mac’s head, because he wanted to and he could and he was tired of thinking that kisses were gross or romantic and he needed Mac to know that even if he wasn’t loved in the let’s-bang-and-get-married way, he was loved in the I’m-your-brother-and-always-will-be way; by Charlie. Mac’s arms tightened around Charlie, and it hurt like Charlie was standing in a vacuum, but he really, really didn’t give a shit.

“Thanks, dude,” Mac cleared his throat and tried to speak clearly, although it was barely above a rasp, and his words wobbled like the legs of a cat wearing kitten mittons.

Charlie never wanted to let go, in case Mac brushed himself down and went to see Dennis and broke his own heart into a billion tiny pieces. Charlie never wanted to let go, in case Mac couldn’t support himself on his own and he collapsed in front of him and died on the spot. Charlie never wanted to let go, in case a meteor crashed into Philadelphia and murdered everyone.

Charlie never wanted to let go, in case he never got to hold on again.

Charlie never wanted to let go, and as he stood with Mac in the middle of the room, seconds passed that turned into minutes, and Mac didn’t show any sign of moving. If anything, his grip tightened.

Charlie never wanted to let go, and evidently, neither did Mac.

Frank sighed, and started making the Grilled Charlie.


End file.
